Just a Step Amongst the Stairs
by LookingBeyondTheEmbers
Summary: Sequel to 'Til All These Things Be Done. The musketeers thought they would be safe once the business with Dulaurier was finally over. Sadly, what they thought was finished had only just begun. A madman with grand ambitions has a plan to help Spain win the war. He springs his trap at the perfect moment, leaving the Inseparables scrambling to save both themselves and their country.
1. Chapter 1

A/N: Hello, everyone! So. This story is a direct continuance of 'Til All These Things Be Done. It's not necessary that you read the first one, but just know that the musketeers went on a mission to help d'Artagnan get some revenge and off the bad guy. The bad guy's boss isn't too happy about it and comes into play in this story. Also know that I would appreciate if you could give it a tiny peek before you begin this one ;).

Rated T for swearing and lots of whumpage. Not intended as slash, just showing the great dynamic between our favorite soldiers.

This story would not have happened if not for my amazing Beta othrilis, who not only looked over every chapter and helped me pick the direction of the plot itself, but is a wonderful editor and an even better person.

Seriously, if you find something you like in this story, you can thank my Beta for it.

This story is dedicated to everyone who read and/or left a review on 'Til All These Things Be Done. I didn't know this sequel would really happen until I started getting all the encouraging words and the requests for a second story. This one's for you, guys. Thank you all.

Standard Disclaimer: Not mine. Just playing with them for a little while.

Hope everyone has a fantastic day!

Namaste.

* * *

The door to the tavern burst open from within, spilling noise and light onto the darkened street of Paris. Laughter echoed off the cobblestone street and startled a stray cat. Porthos, Aramis, Athos, and d'Artagnan spilled onto the street, all smiling and in high spirits from their night of celebrating.

D'Artagnan grinned, drawing close to Athos. The normally reserved musketeer had smiled through most of the evening and acted more light-hearted than Aramis and Porthos had seen him in years.

It was the end of a week filled with adversities, although their current mood made up for all the hardships. They had tracked down a few criminals that had been terrorizing the lower towns and successfully brought them to justice. The king had commended Treville for the victory of his musketeers and offered a personal thanks to Athos. The eldest musketeer had taken full responsibility for completing the mission, his habitual tact and grace had all guaranteed success without civilian casualties.

Although the former Comte accepted the thanks with humility and bowed respectfully, Aramis could see the triumph and quiet pride shining in his eyes. To top it off, the Red Guards had been caught harassing the stall owners for "protection fees". The king had been disgusted with the actions of the captain, and more so Rochefort, as their immediate superior. Rochefort had barely managed to stammer out an apology in front of the entire Royal Court.

Athos had seen the burning look of hatred sent towards Treville, but the former Spanish prisoner had been unable to do anything but suffer the humiliation and bow, out of the king's good graces for the moment.

Aramis suspected it was this fact, rather than any amount of praise received from the king, that had gotten Athos into such a good mood.

"I still can't believe Porthos drank all of it," the Gascon said gleefully.

"Said I would, didn't I?" Porthos shot back over his shoulder, waggling an eyebrow.

"Yes, but did you really have to down half the barrel? Anything greater than four bottles would have sufficed," Athos said dryly, although his face was relaxed and he smiled slightly.

"I hadn't planned on all of it! That arrogant cabinet maker told me I couldn't. It was a matter of honor," Porthos said proudly, with an oddly distinguished manner that he had picked up from the former Comte.

"You just didn't want to admit that he could outdrink you," Aramis said, slinging a comfortable arm around his brother's massive shoulder.

"He didn't outdrink me!" Porthos protested. "Nobody can!"

Athos raised an eyebrow, and Porthos seemed to feel the challenge in the air. He added somewhat uneasily, "In a contest, is all. Drinking on behalf of personal affairs is entirely different."

The Musketeers continued walking down the street, moving away from the lighted windows of the tavern. It was deserted and began to feel somewhat oppressive in the stillness.

D'Artagnan was about to reply to Porthos when he heard the scuffle of boots on the cobblestones behind him. He started to turn but was hit hard in the side of the head with the pommel of a sword.

The Gascon went down in an ungainly heap.

Athos was about to yell when other hands materialized from the shadows of an alleyway. Two pairs of hands grabbed his arms and he struggled in their grip. With a sickening sense of dread, he saw Aramis get similarly restrained.

One of their assailants punched the handsome musketeer squarely in the jaw, and his head rocked back. All the fight went out of his body instantly. They dropped Aramis unceremoniously onto the street near where d'Artagnan lay.

Porthos let out a bellow of rage and pulled out of the arms trying to restrain him.

Athos watched his brother's struggle and tried in vain to extricate himself from the strong hands on him.

One of the men approached him with a cloth bag. The last thing Athos saw before it was pulled over his head was his brother, being pulled back by five men who were clearly struggling to stop him from charging over to help his brother. One of the men grabbed a nearby scrap of wood and hit Porthos with it so hard it split in two.

The large musketeer dropped to his knees, clearly disoriented.

"Porthos!" Athos yelled, only half-expecting a response. The eldest musketeer's voice was muffled by the heavy cloth over his head, and the air was becoming thin. Through his harsh breathing, the Comte was starting to feel dizzy. He was dragged across the street, body sagging helplessly due to the lack of oxygen.

Porthos was likewise dragged along, although it took three men to haul him into the waiting wagon. D'Artagnan and Aramis were thrown into the back. Athos dimly felt the thud of their unresponsive bodies next to his on the rough wagon.

He gasped, trying to will the black spots in his vision to disappear, and slowly lost the fight to stay conscious.

Athos heard the crack of a whip, felt the wagon jolt forward and succumbed to the darkness threatening to overtake him.

* * *

Aramis awoke slowly, becoming aware of his surroundings gradually. He worked his jaw, letting out an involuntary gasp at how sore it was. He raised his head to look around and instantly forgot about his pain.

He was in a small cell, the only door heavy and metal, across the room. The walls were made of dark stone, making it gloomy as any dungeon of the Bastille. Water crept through the cracks in the mortar, dripping to the floor. In the dim light, it gave the unsettling impression that the walls were weeping.

Breathing out, Aramis forced himself to his feet. To his relief, he wasn't bound in any way, but the cell offered no means of escape. His weapons were missing, as was his cloak. The room was very cold; the musketeer could see his breath spiraling out into the air. He swayed on his feet a few times, and gingerly probed at the spectacular bruise forming on his face.

Moving to the door, he stood on his toes to look through the tiny slot. He could see a dark corridor, illuminated only by a single torch. It was empty. Across the hall, he could see the dim outline of another cell. He stepped close to the walls, pulling at the stones to test their strength. Although it was clearly old, it remained solidly in place.

He threw himself at the door, knowing it would do nothing to the thick iron. Rubbing his shoulder, he retreated to the middle of the room, staring bleakly at the walls around him.

"Aramis?" a soft call from the left wall of his cell sounded. Aramis immediately rushed to the side of the room, pressing an ear against the cold stone.

"Athos? Is that you?" he asked back, trying to stay quiet lest their jailers come back.

"Yes. Are you alright?" the eldest musketeer inquired. Even in their current predicament, Aramis felt his spirits lift at hearing the calm voice of his friend.

"I'm fine. What happened?" Aramis answered, slumping against the wall.

"I'm not sure yet. Is d'Artagnan with you? Or Porthos?"

A note of worry crept into the former Comte's voice, though he tried to hide it.

"No. I'm alone," the handsome musketeer said numbly, trying to think of a way out.

A pained groan drifted through the air.

"Porthos?" Athos called, obviously having heard the noise from directly across the hall.

"Athos? 'Mis?" the large soldier called back. "Where are we?"

"I wish I knew," Aramis answered dryly.

A sudden shifting noise came from the cell across from the one Aramis occupied, and they all froze again.

"D'Artagnan?" Porthos called lowly.

"Wha's going on?" a slurred reply came back, and Aramis winced at the obvious disorientation in his voice.

"Are you alright?" Athos asked, looking out the door slot, although his range of vision was too narrow to permit him even a glance at his friend.

"I'll live," the Gascon said miserably.

"Did anyone see who grabbed us?" Porthos asked, listening carefully so he wouldn't lose any of the slightly muffled words.

"It was too dark," Aramis replied, running a hand through his hair. "They were wearing hats that hid their faces. It was impossible to tell."

"How did we get here?" d'Artagnan asked, still sounding dazed.

"We were dropped into the back of a wagon. I don't know where, or for how long we traveled," Athos answered tonelessly.

Even in a separate room, Aramis could practically feel the soft, regretful sigh he knew was coming from his brother.

"Does anyone have any weapons?" Athos asked.

"No. They even took the knife in my boot," Porthos said, sounding both angry and dejected.

"It'll be alright," Aramis soothed.

They all went silent, and Athos suddenly felt uneasy.

"D'Artagnan?" he asked.

Only silence answered him.

"D'Artgnan?" he repeated louder, going to the wall and pounding it hard with his fist.

"I'm here," the young musketeer said, although something in his voice still seemed wrong.

"Go to the door of your cell, d'Artagnan. Look through the slot; maybe I'll be able to see you," Aramis said, already peering through the tiny hole in his door.

"A door?" the Gascon replied uncertainly. "Which….which one?"

The room spun uncomfortably around him and he could see two doors, tilting and turning. He tried to get up, to do as the medic had asked, and promptly collapsed back to the floor, clutching his head in pain.

"I need you to stay awake," Athos said seriously, hating the fact that they were separated.

"I can do that," d'Artagnan answered immediately, although he doubted himself as the room took another sickening lurch.

"We'll have to wait until our jailer comes, I suppose," Aramis said resignedly, although Porthos could hear the worry behind the statement.

Silence reigned over the adjoined cells. They all sat quietly, trying not to think of what would happen to them. The cold seemed to eat into their bones, and all of them wished fervently for their cloaks. Gradually, their ears became accustomed to the lack of noise. Every drop of water falling seemed a massive wave crashing down, every flicker of the torch an enormous gust of wind.

Aramis' eyes became accustomed to the dim light of the cell until he could see every etch in the wall and every imperfection in the iron door.

As the hours dragged by, they lost interest in talking more and more. Even Porthos was being unnaturally quiet. Athos had kept d'Artagnan talking in the beginning, and gradually the Gascon began to sound better.

After an interminable amount of time, a faint scuffling sound was heard from down the hall. To Athos, it was thunderous. The steps slowly came closer, echoing down the long corridor.

Aramis instinctively backed away from the door, then tried to peer through the slot in his door. A shadow jumped and danced on the opposite wall, monstrously elongated by the uncertain light of the torch.

Finally, the footsteps ceased, somewhere to the right of Athos' cell.

"Musketeers," a voice rang out. It sounded deafening after the hours of silence. "So glad you could join me here in my humble abode."

"Who are you?" Athos asked, peering through the eyehole in his door. "Show yourself!"

They all watched as a figure stepped forward, into the flickering firelight.

Their jailer was a tall man with iron-gray hair and piercing green eyes. His jaw was square, and he exuded a kind of inner strength impossible to deny.

"My name is Bastian. I'm sorry to have kept you here so long; there were other matters which required my attention."

His voice was cultured and pleasant. If they weren't being held captive, Aramis would even say friendly.

"What do you want with us?" Porthos asked, putting his hands around the edges of the window in his door.

"I brought you here to discuss a proposition, which I think you'll find most agreeable given time," Bastian continued calmly, seeming unperturbed at the anger in the large man's voice.

"Oh, dear God, you're a Protestant," Aramis said with mock dread. "Keep us here, if you must, but spare us your sermon and permit us to die in peace."

"I am not a missionary, _monsieur_," Bastian answered amiably. "A friend of mine was very interested in you and your companions a few months ago. Perhaps you'll recognize the name Nicolas de Dulaurier?"

A coldness which had nothing to do with the chill in the dungeon crept over the musketeers.

"I think you've already met another of my associates?" he continued, stepping aside slightly. Jacques, the last of the original bandits, appeared out of the darkness. Aramis heard the involuntarily gasp from d'Artagnan's cell and felt his fists curl with rage.

After Dulaurier's death, they had gone back to Paris. They had searched for the sole remaining member of his group of men for months, never being able to find him. They had all, somewhat gratefully, assumed that he had either died or fled the country. Little by little, d'Artagnan and the other musketeers had been able to relax, not constantly fearing for their lives or safety of the ones they loved.

It seemed that their complacency had been a trick all along, and Athos felt his heart sink.

"I'm glad I got to see you again," Jacques said roughly, grinning as he stepped closer to the cells. "Especially you, d'Artagnan."

The Gascon threw himself at the door in rage.

"What do you want with us now?" Porthos demanded. "Gone to serve a new master now, have you?"

"Dulaurier was more than any of you," Jacques sneered with contempt. "He knew when to take the risks. For years, he ruled the underworld of crime."

"He got cocky and overstepped his boundaries," Athos intoned in a quiet voice that was impossible to ignore. "The only difference between Dulaurier and any other common thief was the size of his ego. For all his schemes and plotting, he was still bested by a few musketeers."

Bastian smiled to himself slightly, watching the exchange intently.

Jacques clenched his fists and was about to reply when Bastian stopped him with a gesture.

"That's enough. Leave us," he said, dismissing the criminal with a wave of his hand. "We still have much to discuss. There will be time for retribution later," he added, in a tone that put d'Artagnan's teeth on edge.

The bandit left after casting a murderous glance towards the cells.

"Now. To be perfectly frank, I couldn't care less about Dulaurier's death. I'm somewhat indebted to you for his death. The man was utterly insane, and altogether too reckless." Bastian addressed all the musketeers, making sure he had their undivided attention.

"However, he was the best leader I had, in any of my rings. A loss such as this cannot go unanswered." His voice darkened and took on a menacing quality.

"We'll talk at a later time; I'm sure you're all tired from the events of today. I'm afraid tomorrow will be a long, grueling day; you should rest while you can." He turned to leave.

"Wait!" Aramis shouted.

Bastian didn't break stride, only paused to take the torch with him. The cells were plunged into complete darkness.

No amount of shouting or cursing from any of them induced their captor to return. Porthos paced his cell like a caged tiger, kicking and punching at the walls until his hands were bruised and his energy finally spent. He slid down the wall, breathing out in frustration. Aramis prayed quietly in his cell, trying to steel himself against the cold and despair around him.

Athos waited indifferently for the dawn to come, worry clouding his clear blue eyes.

D'Artagnan sat huddled in a corner, shivering against the cold. He didn't sleep but dozed, lost in thoughts of self-blame and loathing. He had once again endangered the lives of his brothers, and left Constance alone and unguarded. This time, he would be the one who failed to return.

* * *

Constance sat awake by candlelight, looking out the window. She mended a torn shirt to keep her hands busy, but her mind was focused on the night outside. She waited until the pale gray light of dawn informed her that night had passed without d'Artagnan's return. Faintly, she heard her husband rise and start pulling on his clothes. He began his day without so much as a greeting to her and then left the house unceremoniously.

Constance heard the door shut firmly behind him, then sat down hollowly in a chair, never feeling more alone as in that second.


	2. Chapter 2

_**A/N:**_ Hi, everybody! Dang, guys, you know how to blow up an inbox! But seriously, I want to thank each and every person who has read, left a review, followed, favorited, etc. You are the best. So chapter 2 is here. Before you jump right down to it, let me say that **I****'m ****going to upload a new chapter every three days.** Yes, you read that correctly. _Chapter 3 will be up on Friday. _I know these first few chapters are kinda boring, but bear with me.

The obligatory warnings are present here. Major spoilers for most of season 2, so if you haven't seen it, please go watch it instead of learning about it here. Torture scenes to follow and _everybody_ gets a dose of whumpage. It's nothing graphic enough to warrant a change in rating but is still a major part of pretty much this whole story. Bastian doesn't want to let his musketeers go now that he has them :)

Standard disclaimer applies. Not mine. Any mistakes you find in here? Mine, all the way.

Namaste.

* * *

Aramis blinked hard, trying to keep his eyes open. He had been awake since Bastian had left them alone, unwilling to relinquish his awareness of the situation even for an instant. He knew Athos was still awake. Porthos snored loudly, displaying his somewhat endearing ability to sleep almost anywhere. Aramis could hear the Gascon muttering quietly in his light, restless sleep.

Slowly, the handsome musketeer's head dropped towards his shoulder, where it rested comfortably. His weary eyes closed, and he sank into an exhausted stupor. Dimly, he knew he should be walking around or talking with Athos to keep himself awake, but he was simply too tired.

His mind wandered, and he was transported out of his dark cell. He was in a warm, light-filled place, away from the cold, away from the godforsaken dripping of water that never ceased with the passing hours, away from the fear of what would happen.

The door to the cell holding Athos screeched open on rusted hinges, dumping Aramis cold and uncomfortable on the brink of consciousness.

Athos was grabbed roughly and hauled to his feet. Despite his mild protest that he could walk, he wasn't released, and was forced to stumble between two large men who kept his arms in iron grips.

"Athos!" d'Artagnan yelled, kicking the door for good measure. His cry woke Porthos, who sat up and started bellowing every threat imaginable once he realized they had taken the musketeer. For his part, Aramis stood silently at the door, staring through the opening with wide eyes.

* * *

Athos let himself be taken passively, fixing every detail of his surroundings into his memory. He was led down the hall, and then to a spiraling staircase. They marched up, and one of the guards shoved him through the door at the top of the landing. It opened into another small room. It was cold and stank like the rest of the prison but had considerably more light than the single torch outside their cell block had provided.

Against the wall were pairs of shackles. With a sinking heart, Athos realized he was to be chained to the wall. Still, he offered no resistance, and only glared when the thugs tightened the cuffs so that he could feel them cutting into the soft flesh of his wrists.

Athos bent awkwardly against the wall. He noticed a small table to his left. Its surface was littered with different implements that gleamed dully in the flickering light.

Bastian entered the small room, leaving the door to the stairwell open. Athos' scorn must have shown on his face, because the criminal leader laughed softly.

"I'm not afraid of you running away, Athos. You'll find that those chains are rather strong. Besides, once we've finished discussing things, you may decide not to leave after all."

Athos raised his head at this, staring at his captor with a look of composed boredom.

"What do you want with us?" Athos said.

"Only to offer you the chance to improve your situations," Bastian said lightly, moving near the table.

"We're musketeers, sworn to protect the king and bound by our honor. You cannot expect us to desert a cause simply for convenience," the soldier countered.

"Very true. That's quite unrealistic." The leader spoke abstractedly, running his thumb across the edge of one of the knives on the table.

"No, Athos. Although, loyalties can be shifted, if you give them enough reason to change. You, as a soldier, have a very specific set of skills."

Bastian walked in front of the musketeer, holding the knife loosely in his right hand at his side.

"Lend me your talents and I'll let you and your friends live," he said softly, looking earnestly in the man's face.

"Do you honestly think me so low as to ever join your misguided cause? You're criminals." Athos said, voice dripping with disdain.

"You misunderstand. I'm not asking you simply for the benefit of raiding houses and robbing travelers. The resources we gather help us to ensure the safety of the country for the future war with Spain." Bastian spoke quietly, with unshakable conviction, still looking steadfastly at his prisoner.

Athos only raised an eyebrow, clearly conveying his disbelief.

"I know you have questions. The time is not yet come, you're not ready to hear it. But soon I think you'll understand what we're trying to accomplish."

He moved toward the table with light, graceful steps. "Can you imagine it, Athos?" Bastian continued.

"To see your friends and family grow old beside you, in peace and without enduring hardship ever again. To wake up in the morning with your wife and children, and not have be afraid of raising them in a world as disturbed by violence as ours."

Athos lowered his gaze, trying not to listen to the words.

"Can you imagine that chance, not only for yourself but for your brothers? For all of France? What would they say, knowing you had this choice but refused?"

Athos clenched his jaw and raised his eyes again. This time his gaze was hard and flat, sharp as diamond.

"The musketeers are also committed to preserving the peace and security of France. Every loyal French citizen would rather die a hundred times over than accept your offer, if it meant betraying everything they believed in. The musketeers, a thousand. We will win the war with Spain, without help from the likes of you." His voice was noble and portrayed nothing except boredom and polite contempt that cut deeper than any insult.

Bastian's jaw tightened, then relaxed.

"You have some time, of course, to think it over. The King of France hasn't done much to help his people as of late. I'm sure you've heard the rumors of dissatisfaction, sweeping over France. The King is neglecting his country, and innocent people are dying. Your French citizens, loyal as they are, are starting to protest the monarchy. They want change, and they want a leader who won't let them go to bed with empty stomachs on threadbare cots."

He paused, letting the words wash over him. "You'll never want for anything again, Athos. I can promise that you and your friends will be safe, along with anyone you care about. Together, we will protect the innocent from suffering, and end the corruption rotting at the heart of our noble country."

"There aren't enough elegant words or gold coins in the world to convince me to give up my cause or my friends," Athos said, closing his eyes calmly.

There was a long moment of silence. Bastian looked at the proud, silent figure before him with something like respect, then stepped closer.

"I thought you would say that. Brave, and noble as ever, Athos. I won't speak of it to you anymore; I know I'll not change your mind. Still, you have other uses." He moved forward, the knife held in a strong, scarred hand. Bastian brought it forward and descended upon the musketeer. Athos tried to keep quiet but couldn't help it as the knife cut through his skin. Blood welled up from various gashes and from the abrasions on his wrists. After Bastian tired of the knife, he went to the table and grabbed a thick metal chain.

Not a word was said as the torture progressed. Even as Athos sagged in his restraints, shaking from pain and unable to hold his own weight up, Bastian remained silent. The screams of the musketeer echoed loudly in the small room and down through the hallways. It was only after the jailer picked up his next instrument of torture that Athos realized why the door had been left open.

* * *

D'Artagnan sat in his cell, feeling sick and helpless. Athos' screams echoed down the hallway, and the strikes the weapon made against his skin were frighteningly clear. It seemed that the cries didn't stop for hours. It was impossible to tell exactly how much time had passed, but they all knew that it had been too long.

Finally, they heard heavy footsteps echoing down the hallway, and the sound of boots dragging across the stones.

Aramis leapt to his feet and rushed to the door, desperate to see the state of his friend.

Two burly guards were walking towards the cell block, supporting Athos' unconscious frame between them. Aramis fought desperately to see more, but the gap in the door just wasn't wide enough to permit anything besides a narrow glance. Still, he didn't fail to notice that the former comte's head was hanging down on his chest, and blood fell to the floor in viscous drops from his downcast face.

The guards threw Athos carelessly back into his cell, locked the door and left once again.

"Athos, are you alright? Athos!" Aramis pounded on the wall adjoining their cells, trying in vain to rouse his friend.

There was no answer, and d'Artagnan felt a sense of dread wash over him in a black tide.

Porthos stood up and tried peering through the window in his door, trying to catch a glimpse of the injured man across the hall.

"Can anyone see him?" the medic asked, worry darkening his tone and making his words shake slightly.

"I can, a little," Porthos said, from his place at the door. "He's still breathing."

The youngest musketeer sighed with relief, then pounded at the door in frustration.

"D'Artagnan, don't," Aramis admonished lightly, feeling his heart settle back into something like a normal rhythm.

"I hate just sitting here!" the Gascon snapped, angry and trying to hide his fear. "What do they want?"

No one had an answer for that, and oppressive silence fell over the cells once again. After an interminable amount of time, they heard slight shifting, and pained groans.

"Athos?" d'Artagnan asked in a small voice.

There was no answer for a minute, just pained shuffling.

Athos forced his eyes to open. Just breathing suddenly seemed like a daunting task. Slowly, he pulled himself to his elbows, trying to adjust to the change in position. He began taking stock of his body, assessing where the worst pain was.

His shoulders burned from holding his weight up for the extended period of time. His face was covered in gashes and his left eye was nearly swollen shut. He looked down at his battered torso and sighed. Most of the gashes weren't too deep, but some he knew would require stitching. They were still bleeding sluggishly, but Athos was more worried about the crackling in his chest. Every deep breath brought a sharp pain.

Nevertheless, he painfully dragged himself to a kneeling position, where he swayed unsteadily. When he felt stronger, he went to his feet. His head didn't like the change in altitude, and his knees threatened to buckle. Athos stumbled drunkenly into the wall, feeling his abused shoulder scream in protest.

Braced along the wall, he slowly made his way to the door and peered out, mostly to assure Porthos that he was indeed alive.

"Oh, thank God," the large musketeer said, seeing his friend.

"Where are you hurt, Athos?" Aramis asked, hating that he couldn't see the musketeer for himself and assess the damage.

Athos looked down at himself and leaned against the door exhaustedly.

"Bastian... did a very professional job," he answered slowly, trying to remain upright.

"I'll kill him," d'Artagnan growled from his cell, feeling a cold fury sweep over him.

"He was talking….about the war…with Spain," Athos managed to get out, feeling his legs shake.

"What did he want?" Porthos asked, straining to hear the words.

"He wants us to join his bandit rings, to help ensure Spanish success," he ground out, fighting against the pain.

"Why?" Aramis asked sharply.

"Don't…know," Athos gasped. "He never….never told me—"

The musketeer fell to his knees, feeling dizzy.

"Athos, what is it?" Aramis asked, trying to keep the panic out of his voice.

"Broken ribs," Athos hissed between clenched teeth. Sweat rolled off his brow and his body shook uncontrollably. "I…c-can't breathe," he continued, slumping with his back against the wall.

"Lie down," the medic said immediately. "The less pressure on your ribs, the better. Just try to breathe normally. Do you have anything to bind them with?" he asked.

"N-no," the musketeer said back breathlessly, forcing his body to relax.

D'Artagnan uttered a curse that would have gotten him slapped by Constance.

They could do little, besides wait for their captors to come back. As time passed, Athos' breathing grew more labored. Porthos peeked through the gap in his door and looked at his friend with growing alarm.

The eldest musketeer was lying on the floor. His face had taken on a grayish tone and his breathing was accompanied by rattling, wet sounds made from deep inside his chest.

"Aramis, his lips are turning blue," Porthos said with dismay.

"Damn it!" Aramis shouted, pounding his fist against the door in anger. Athos' eyelids opened uncomprehendingly for a moment at the noise, then fluttered shut again.

"Someone's coming," d'Artagnan said, hearing a noise from the corridor. They all froze in silence as the footsteps came closer.

The guards lumbered slowly down the hallway.

"He needs help. Please, let me see him," Aramis pleaded with them as they approached the block of cells.

"You're next," one of the guards said, unlocking the door to the handsome musketeer's cell.

The iron door pulled open with a ghastly shriek which left Porthos' ears ringing.

"No, wait! Let me treat him!" Aramis exclaimed, fighting against the strong hands that caught his arms.

He kicked and fought in the unbreakable grip as he was dragged down the hallway towards the stairwell.

"Bastards!" d'Artagnan shouted, kicking ineffectually at the door. He spun around, and tears of frustration and rage burned his eyes.

"Ara…mis?" a quiet word laced with pain was heard. Athos tried to get up and found he couldn't. The effort left him gasping for breath like a fish out of water.

"Don't try to move, Athos," d'Artagnan said, keeping his voice calm. "We'll get out of this, get you some help."

"They took…Aramis?" the musketeer asked, ignoring his friend's words.

"Yes," Porthos answered dejectedly. He tried to think of words to comfort his friend and found they all rang hollow even in his own mind.

* * *

Aramis was hauled up the stairs. He fought and bucked for every inch, and actually managed to free his left arm before one of the guards belted him across the face. The handsome musketeer stumbled into the room, blinking back the stars that had exploded into his vision.

He was roughly chained to the wall in the same manner as Athos. Bastian stepped forward, once again leaving the door open.

Aramis locked eyes with the criminal, making sure the contempt he felt was clear on his face. Bastian seemed unperturbed by the hateful gaze cast in his direction, and merely stepped closer.

"You're a king's musketeer, loyal to the very core, I suspect. Yet you don't look French," Bastian said inquiringly.

"Well, you don't look like a traitorous prick, so I suppose appearances can be deceiving," Aramis shot back.

His captor looked quietly amused for a moment, then moved towards the shackled figure.

"Peleas porque no siempre fuiste aceptado, verdad?" Bastian asked quietly.

_You fight because you were not always accepted, yes_? The words fell as lightly as soothing raindrops, but Aramis flinched.

"Yes," he answered grudgingly in Spanish.

"It must have been hard for you," his captor continued gently. His green eyes were piercing, but not without kindness and what looked like sincerity.

"It was," the musketeer answered shortly, trying to look away from the thoughtful gaze and failing.

Bastian looked at him for a long moment, then continued. "Ten years ago, I was a woodsman near Le Havre. I lived alone in a small cottage on a small piece of land. One day, I went to my well, and heard a woman screaming. I followed the noise, and found a group of Frenchman in a circle. They had a Spanish woman surrounded, and were pushing her back and forth, shouting and ripping off her clothing."

The criminal's eyes hardened to pieces of flint.

"She was screaming and crying, but they refused to let her go. I asked them what they thought they were doing. They told me she had snuck into the country, trying to spy for her government." Bastian paused, looking up at Aramis with an earnestness that shocked the musketeer.

"Please understand, she wasn't a spy. Her hands and face were scratched, her hair was tangled. Her dress was in shreds and she didn't have any shoes. She wasn't sent by an ambassador of any kind; she later told me she had escaped slavers in Spain. The men refused to let her go, so I fought with them."

"I won against all of them, but not without cost. I was badly injured, but the woman helped me back to my house and cared for me. When I had regained my strength several weeks later, she and I had a kind of understanding."

Bastian's face had taken on a distant look. A half-smile played around his lips, as if remembering some long-ago joy. The Spanish words flowed easily off his tongue in an almost musical cadence.

"Slowly, we learned each other's languages. Fairly soon, she was speaking French with as pure an accent as any Parisian, and I spoke Spanish the Castilian school would be proud to claim. In time, I grew to love her, my beautiful Leonor. We were married in secret and had a son, little Pele. He had dark hair and eyes that shone with mischief just like hers."

"Just a few weeks shy of Pele's eighth birthday, soldiers came to the door. They had come back from grueling weeks of reconnaissance work in Spain."

A hard edge came back into Bastian's voice.

"Many were injured, and they asked if we had food, water and some spare medical supplies. Before I could think of anything to say, Leonor opened the door wider. The soldiers saw her, and immediately accused me of being a traitor. They hit me and took my wife. Pele came running, but they grabbed him too.

The commander of the soldiers tied me up and told me I should be ashamed. I could hear Leonor screaming as they dragged her behind the house, and I could hear Pele's yelling. He was strong spirited and fearless, even at seven years old."

Bastian paused, letting a long moment of silence spool out into the air.

"They began beating me," he continued the story, switching back to French. "But they were careful not to hit me too much, because they wanted me awake so that I knew exactly what happened to Spaniards and suspected spies. I heard two gunshots, one after the other. In the ten years that have passed, there has never been a night when I haven't wondered which one went first."

"They started hauling me out into the yard to join them, and I went wild."

His green eyes met Aramis', and the medic almost flinched at the raw pain he saw.

"I killed the leader first. A few of the other officers tried to stop me, but I killed them as well. Most of them ran for the woods, trying to flee. When the fighting was over, I went outside and buried my wife and my son. Then I spent the next two years tracking them down, one by one."

Aramis felt a tremor run down his spine at the cold, matter-of-fact tone. The man could have been discussing the price of silk.

"In that time, I've run into more than a few Spanish spies. Real ones," he added with a wry, humorless grin. "I've talked with them. The Spanish don't need to be our enemies. The soldiers that murdered my family were acting under King Louis' orders. My wife had done nothing but escape to freedom and happiness. Pele was blameless, a child. His only crime was to have a Spanish woman as his mother."

Aramis stood frozen in shock, uncomfortable.

"I'm sorry this happened to you. Truly," he said finally.

Bastian struck out with a fist like a snake, too fast to even see. Aramis' head rocked back, gasping in pain as the blow struck his already bruised face.

"I don't want your sympathy!" he snapped, enraged. Two livid spots appeared high on his cheekbones, and his eyes flashed dangerously.

He turned away and stood still for a moment. When he had mastered himself, he turned back.

"Forgive me, Aramis. The memories are still quite painful. I wish only to discuss how we can help each other. You've seen your friend, Athos. I'm going to send you back in a little while with some medical supplies. Tend to him and think about what I've told you. Try to reflect upon my motives. In time, I think you'll at least understand, if not approve of them."

"You commanded Dulaurier," Aramis said, forcing every ounce of contempt he could muster into his voice. "He was a deranged brute with a talent for cruelty. How could I understand a man who brought so much pain to myself and to my friends?"

"It's funny you should put it quite that way, _honorable musketeer_," Bastian sneered. "You serve someone far more corrupt than I could ever be, and you disguise your loyalty as patriotism. At least I'm brave enough to claim my actions for what they are."

"Enough!" Aramis snapped, lunging forward against the chains.

Bastian laughed and turned away, gesturing to the guards who had stood silently in the corners of the room.

"Leave his hands untouched; he'll need those to tend to his friends later. Do whatever else you wish. When you're finished, summon me." He strode out the doorway confidently and down the stairs without looking back.

Aramis listened until the footsteps had died away. The guards advanced on him.

One was wrapping his fists, another picked up an incredibly sharp-looking knife. Aramis closed his eyes and moved his lips soundlessly, praying for courage and strength as the first blows descended upon him.

* * *

Back in the cells, d'Artagnan flinched at every strike and yell of pain he heard coming from the stairs. Porthos sat silently in his cell, miserably trying to ignore the sick feeling in the pit of his stomach and the pounding in his head. In the cell across the corridor, Athos tossed fitfully. Even sleeping, his breath came in wheezing gasps. D'Artganan was quiet, but Porthos could hear him pacing restlessly and could feel his anxiety. As he looked around his cell for perhaps the hundredth time since being imprisoned, he felt the first real stirrings of fear gnawing at him.


	3. Chapter 3

_**A/N:**_ Hi, everyone! I know I said I wouldn't update until tomorrow. But I began going back through and changing some things to create a better story, and I'm just really excited about how it'll turn out. And I'm excited to share it with all of you :) So here's the new chapter. This one isn't so great action-wise, but Chapter 4 will be up on Saturday at the latest and it'll start picking up. Reviews are always welcome, no matter what they say. To everyone who favorited/followed/read/left a review, a thousand thanks from me. It's so nice that work here gets so much positive support and feedback, and I want you to know I appreciate it.

Disclaimer: Still don't own it. Yet.

Namaste.

* * *

Constance walked briskly into the Garrison, holding her skirts up slightly to avoid tripping in her haste. She passed several musketeers practicing and peeked her head into the stables.

"Madame Bonacieux," the stable hand greeted her easily. He had grown used to seeing her in the past. Although he had nothing against the woman, he had noted in the past that she only came to the garrison when The Inseparables were in trouble. _Which_ _was rather often_, he reflected privately.

"Antoine," she greeted, smiling prettily despite the nervousness she felt. "Have you seen d'Artagnan or the others?"

"Not this morning," he answered, pitching hay into a nearby wheelbarrow. "They might still be in the kitchens. Muster finished not ten minutes ago."

"Thank you," Constance said, already half out of the stables.

"You're very welcome," Antoine said. He turned to greet only empty air. He snorted once, then went back to his work.

* * *

"Oh, not you again!" Serge exclaimed, real exasperation in his voice. "What is it this time? If you tell me you need honey salve for one more sword slice or comfrey for another bruise, I swear you'll be going back with more than a few lumps on your own head, missy!"

He raised his soup ladle menacingly, the symbol of his absolute authority. Constance shrank away from the large man's bellowing.

"Nothing like that. This time," she added a little waspishly. "Have you seen them?"

"Haven't seen that lot since dinner time yesterday. Expert thieves, the lot of them. The fancy one and the boy were throwing around a bowl of cheese, threatenin' to spill it everywhere. While I was distracted, the big one made off with some extra loaves of bread. The rest of the garrison was clapping and cheering, like it was some big joke."

"Well, after two weeks of gruel, they'll think twice about pulling any stunts like this again." The cook's features creased into a frighteningly cunning smile that made Constance silently vow never to irritate the man again.

He turned back to his pots and pans, banging and clanging them together as he mixed ingredients.

"They'll turn up, lass. They always do," he called over the din.

Constance turned to go.

Looking up at the worn wooden stairs, she sighed. The captain would not be pleased.

* * *

"I haven't seen them since yesterday afternoon. They said they were going to the tavern. Have you checked their rooms?" Treville asked. His keen blue eyes gazed fiercely at Constance's in the determined way she had come to trust.

"D'Artagnan didn't come home last night. Athos' apartments were locked, and I wanted to see if they were here before I went searching every bungalow and tavern for Porthos. Or Aramis," she added dryly.

"They weren't authorized with leave for this morning. I don't believe they would have simply stayed home. We'd better go look for them," he sighed like a man about to begin some arduous quest. Secretly, he was pleased beyond measure to be away from his desk with all its hateful paperwork, but appearances had to be kept up, after all.

"We'll start with Athos' apartments again, then check back at your house. After that, we'll go to the tavern," Treville said, taking full charge and walking swiftly through the streets. Despite the nagging feeling that something was wrong, he shortened his stride length slightly out of deference to Constance.

She didn't say anything but was grateful for his consideration. Other men would have left her behind completely. The captain of the musketeers hadn't even asked her if she was coming, just knew she would. They strode through the bustling streets, hurrying towards the door they hoped would hold the answers.

* * *

The guards finally stopped hitting Aramis. He shuddered for a moment, breathing harshly. His entire body hurt, although his hands had gone numb from being suspended above him for so long. One of the guards stepped closer and undid the lock on the cuffs. Aramis collapsed to a boneless heap on the hard floor. A white-hot bolt of pain went through his entire body, and he could do little but tremble and try to stop the small noise of pain that threatened to escape him.

Aramis didn't know how long it had been since Bastian left, but the guards had wasted no time. He could feel the bruises swelling on his face and head, although his torso seemed mostly intact if not incredibly sore. His legs were also now covered in gashes and bruises. They hauled him up roughly and began dragging him towards the door, back to his cell.

Aramis sagged in their grip, gasping for breath as his shoulders rotated in their abused sockets.

"Wait, stop, please," he pleaded with them, feeling his stomach churn nastily. They continued heedlessly and Aramis' vision grayed out. Sounds and motion ceased to hold meaning for him. It all seemed vague and disjointed, so he closed his eyes.

He was roused from his stupor when he landed abruptly to the floor of Athos' cell. Bouncing across the rough surface, the wind was knocked out of him. A few objects were hurled in after him, where they rolled across the filthy ground toward him. He gasped for a few seconds, finally getting his breath back. He took in great gulps of the fetid prison air, then rolled himself over once he felt a little better. D'Artagnan and Porthos were calling his name with increasingly worried tones.

"I'm alright," he rasped out, staggering to his feet and going to the slot in the door. "That's the last time I mistake a stone floor with the finest swan's down," he tried to joke.

"How bad is it?" d'Artagnan asked, also peeking out of his gap in the iron door.

"Not terrible," Aramis answered, settling on a half-truth. "I'm alright, and they've left a needle and thread, some bandages…," he trailed off, looking at the haphazard collection of fabric strips thrown into the cell. "I can at least tend to Athos, and we'll go from there."

He was mumbling more to himself than talking to the others at this points. He forced himself to stop. Aramis could feel his heart racing wildly in his chest, and the other musketeers must have noticed something wrong.

"Aramis?" Porthos asked hesitantly.

"It's fine, Porthos," the handsome musketeers assured him with a confidence he didn't feel. "Let me see what I can do."

He pulled himself over to his unconscious friend. Athos was looking a little better, although the medic felt that the peace was going to be short-lived.

"Athos," he said, nudging the man's shoulder lightly.

The musketeer's eyes raced beneath closed lids, then opened slowly.

"'Mis?" he mumbled, trying to focus.

"I need you awake to tell me what hurts," the handsome soldier told his friend seriously.

Athos tried to pull himself up, then froze and gasped.

"Right side," he said between clenched teeth. A cold sweat appeared on his brow, and Aramis cursed softly.

The medic carefully helped ease his friend to an upright position. He picked up the bandages and began tying them around Athos' battered midsection. While he worked, he spoke to Porthos and d'Artagnan about what he had learned.

"He's rebelling against the government," Aramis finished. "Allied himself with the Spanish, and is against everything we stand for."

"Damn," Porthos said, lost for words to describe his feelings.

"I can understand his reasons for disliking the government. But why run the risk of getting arrested stealing things from French citizens?" D'Artagnan asked from his cell.

"Part of it is to lower the morale of France," Athos answered, voice rough. "These raids have been going on for months, and the King has been all but powerless to stop them."

"I have an idea," Aramis said slowly. "But you're not going to like it."

The other musketeers listened to the quiet words unfolding their plan.

"You're right, I don't like it," Porthos muttered.

"If you can think of something better, then by all means," d'Artagnan said dryly.

Aramis had focused on finishing his task once again. With a last careful pull, he tied off the last strand of cloth.

Athos leaned against the wall, obviously in discomfort from the tug of the bandages, but already looking better.

Aramis carefully wiped the congealed blood away from the cuts with a scrap of cloth left over when his hands began to shake.

Athos saw his strange, jerky movements.

"Breathe. Aramis, breathe," Athos commanded strongly, every indicator of pain banished from his body and voice.

The medic sank back on his heels, feeling his breath rattle around in his chest and trying to keep from passing out that instant.

"You need to calm down," their leader said in a firm voice, though not unkindly. They had fought each other's demons too often to doubt their hold.

"Trying," Aramis answered weakly. His hands shook violently, and Athos took them into his own, feeling the cold skin underneath his.

"Did they hurt your hands?" Athos asked quietly, feeling gingerly for any injuries hidden beneath the skin.

"No, they d-didn't touch my hands," Aramis said in a strangled voice. "Everything else, but not my hands. They said I needed them for this."

"Alright, easy," Porthos said from the cell, hearing the conversation.

Athos took what was left of the medical supplies and gingerly felt along Aramis' torso. The medic shook his head vigorously.

"Nothing's broken. I wasn't even cut that badly. Just b-bruised."

"I'll decide what qualifies as 'badly'," Athos said authoritatively, as though he hadn't been struggling to breathe half an hour prior.

"Who made you…the medic?" Aramis slurred, his eyes closing of their own accord. He dimly felt Athos help him lean against the wall and straighten out his legs.

The last thing he heard before passing out again were heavy steps in the corridor. He was unconscious before he could hear the door to d'Artagnan's cell opening with a rusted shriek.

* * *

"There were four musketeers here last night." Treville's voice, accustomed to bellowing orders across a battlefield, carried easily through the tavern's interior. Several men slunk lower in their chairs, hoping not to be singled out. The owner of the tavern approached the captain with a tired look. He was a short, broad man with gray hair that was beginning to fall out.

"Captain Treville. So glad you could come back to my establishment." The owner sounded less than enthused. The musketeers had a long history of starting many fights, breaking many glasses (among other things) and generally causing disturbances within his four walls.

"I'm looking for Athos, Porthos, Aramis, and d'Artagnan," Treville said without preamble.

"They were here last night, but they left around one this morning," the small man said brusquely. "I finally turned them out after they drank everything in sight, including a rather expensive barrel of Spanish wine."

Treville fought the urge to roll his eyes.

"Did you see where they went?" he asked, trying to be polite.

"How the hell should I know?" the owner gestured rudely. "It's bad enough that I had to see them, now I have to deal with you. I'm starting to think you lot just like breaking things!"

"If I find out you're hiding anything, you'll be sorry," the captain told him, refusing to be cowed and fighting his temper.

"I'll remember that, Mother," the tavern keeper said sarcastically, turning back to his bar.

Treville strode out the door without looking back.

Constance glared at the man for the sake of solidarity, then stormed out after the captain.

In the alleyway, Treville was kneeling down, looking at something on the ground.

"What is it?" she asked, hurrying over.

"Mud," he answered shortly. "It looks like it might rain today, but there's been no rain this past week. The rest of the dirt is dry."

"There's a wheel impression," Constance said, noticing a pattern in the strange grooves dried into the mud. "And something else." She frowned, noticing a flash of color a few feet away. Picking it up with her fingertips, Constance felt her heart drop as she recognized the purple plant.

"Is that heather?" Treville asked, frowning at the small flower.

"It's what they used to find Dulaurier," Constance said in a shaking voice.

The captain grimaced and stood with a sigh. "It's always something."

He insisted that they check the Bonacieux residence once more, and Athos' as well just to make sure they weren't overlooking something simple. Constance was unsurprised when they found the houses cold and empty.

Treville led her to the middle of the street, where they stood for a moment. Above them, the sky was darkening and thunder rumbled ominously. As the wind began blowing strongly, women ordered their children inside and frantically began taking in the washing on clotheslines crowding the streets.

Constance looked around bleakly at the squalid surroundings.

"I don't understand," she said in a small voice. Treville looked at her with quick sympathy and opened his mouth to reply. At that moment, a brilliant flash of lightning was followed by a loud crack of thunder. It began downpouring almost immediately.

Treville shrugged off his cloak and draped it around her shoulders. If he was bothered by the water soaking him through, he didn't show it.

"We'll find them," he assured her. "Let's head back to the garrison. We can organize a search party and canvass all the known forests and locations where heather grows."

Constance felt her eyes pooling with tears of mingled fear and gratitude for the stern man. Impulsively, she threw her arms around his neck. Treville stood shocked for a moment, then gently patted her on the back.

"Come on," he said somewhat gruffly, but with a kind smile. Together, they walked back towards the garrison.

* * *

"I've seen you walking around Paris," Bastian told the infuriated Gascon. Unfortunately, being chained in place, d'Artagnan could do nothing but glower at his jailer.

"For weeks, Jacques and I waited until the right moment. We watched your training in the courtyard of the garrison, we saw you shooting, we saw you fight the Red Guards. I admire your courage, d'Artagnan, the proud way in which you hold yourself."

He paused, walking around the table and idly running his hand over it without touching the edge.

"My family is from Lupiac; I lived there as a boy. You've not yet lost the Bearnese accent."

Bastian's voice hinted at some inner bemusement, and d'Artagnan just stayed quiet, slightly confused.

"It does me pride, to know that one of my countrymen has acted with such honorable conduct, even through the catastrophe Dulaurier engineered."

D'Artagnan bristled at being compared to this criminal in any way. "What does this have to do with anything?" he snapped impatiently.

Instead of being angry, Bastian again smiled to himself. "Brash as ever. You really are a proper Gascon. The meaning of all this, d'Artagnan, is simply what I've been telling you. I want you to know that I hold no ill-will for you particularly. You killed Dulaurier, and he was valuable to me. He was also too dangerous to be left alive. The honor you showed during his last moments was related very faithfully to me by Jacques. I can't bring myself to hate a man who acts with such grace under pressure."

"Unfortunately, I cannot say the same for the last living associate of Dulaurier's ring. Jacques doesn't share my sentiments of gratitude, quite the opposite, I'm afraid. I asked him if he wanted to help with the treatments of your friends, but he refused. It was only you that he really desired revenge against. After everything he's done, I can't deny him this. You understand," he said, looking at d'Artagnan with a disarmingly open look.

The Gascon felt dark hatred flare and spit at the criminal.

"We share nothing!" he hissed in a low voice filled with venom. "The life I knew in Gascony ended when my father was murdered on the road, when my farm was burned to the ground. I belong to the musketeers, to Paris, and to the king of France."

"Maybe," Bastian said easily, nodding. "Although, I suspect that will change fairly soon."

"What do you want with us?" the musketeer shouted, his patience wearing thin. "Aramis told us everything. You're using the jewels you bought to undermine the crown. A few pathetic robberies and thieves in the nights aren't going to change the allegiance of an entire country," he sneered.

"You don't think so? You think it would take something earth-shattering and dramatic to accomplish the feat?" Bastian asked him. The man approached d'Artagnan with an odd, half smile that didn't reach his eyes. He picked up a knife and walked closer.

Bastian ran the blade lightly across the sensitive flesh of his neck. His pressure increased and the musketeer flinched as blood ran down in a thin red line.

"Dulaurier managed to disrupt your whole life in one evening. By accident, no less. It only takes one small act to change everything. The doubt is already present in the minds of the people. By the time King Louis decides we are worth his attention, it will be far too late."

He moved the knife downward and d'Artagnan hissed as it cut into his side, across his ribs.

"The entire world will come crashing down around your ears, and there will be nothing you or your precious musketeers can do to stop it," Bastian said viciously, jerking the knife upwards. Blood was beginning to stain the Gascon's shirt. He gasped at the pain but kept silent.

"The worst part? You won't understand why, because all your actions are governed by a vague morality of right and wrong."

Bastian turned around and took a pistol from the table. He checked the priming and loaded a ball.

"Let me tell you a secret, d'Artagnan," he said. "In your world, great force is needed to overpower others. Battles are won and legends forged in this way. That's where you're wrong, all of you."

Bastian's warm breath tickled his neck as he spoke quietly into his ear. The Gascon fought a shudder.

"In your philosophy, the bigger something is, the greater the impact it will have. The notion that 'might makes right.' Tell me, is the pebble truly less than the mountain?"

D'Artagnan closed his eyes and heard the hammer of the pistol cock back.

"A pebble wouldn't be crushed in a landslide," Bastian said and pulled the trigger.

* * *

Athos flinched as the retort of the gunshot rang through the prison's stone walls. Porthos scrambled up from the floor of his cell across the hall and stood at the door. Athos felt his frayed nerves sing with tension as silence fell over the prison.

The noise roused Aramis, who sluggishly moved his head toward the source.

"What was that?" he asked thickly, attempting to move his uncooperative limbs.

Athos shook his head tightly, lips pressed together in a trembling white line.

They heard footsteps and the sound of something being dragged across the stone floor a few minutes later. Two guards came back, hauling the unconscious frame of d'Artagnan between them. They unlocked his cell and set him on the floor.

Then the brutes moved to Athos' cell, unlocking the door. Athos forced himself to his feet and stepped in front of Aramis, who was still seated on the floor with his back against the wall. One of the guards shoved Athos out of the way, knocking the air out of his lungs and jarring his recently bandaged ribs painfully.

The eldest musketeer fell to his knees, gasping for breath. The guards grabbed Aramis, who was still groggy and unable to resist. They hauled him upright and pulled him towards the door.

"Athos?" Aramis asked uncertainly, weakly struggling in the grip of the jailers.

"No!" Athos shouted. He staggered upright moved, purely on instinct. Even through the haze of his current condition, Aramis felt the strong grasp of his friend's hand around his own. Their fingers were yanked apart and Athos was punched hard across the jaw, knocking him to the ground once again.

The guard holding Aramis snarled and dragged his limp body out of the cell and back into his own across from d'Artagnan. The Gascon lay unresponsive and still on the floor where the brutes had dropped him.

Aramis hit the ground and groaned in pain, momentarily unable to move. Athos sat on the floor of his cell, rubbing his jaw tenderly around the bruise already beginning to form.

A third guard came down the steps holding a large club in his hands. He joined the other two, who were standing outside the door to Porthos' cell.

"Bastian said to take him upstairs now," one of them said, motioning toward the door.

"He could escape," the first one replied, looking doubtfully at Porthos' large frame through the slit in the door.

"Better not risk it," the guard holding the club answered.

"Stay back!" Porthos growled.

One of them unlocked the door and flung it open. Porthos charged towards the men and succeeded in wrapping his hands around the neck of the one holding the keys. His eyes widened in terror and his fists beat ineffectually at the musketeer's arms, which may as well have been made of iron.

The second guard shouted and punched at Porthos, who refused to loosen his grip. The guard holding the club moved behind the musketeer and brought it sideways on his head with as much force as he could.

The blow stunned the soldier, who loosened his grip slightly. The guard being strangled in his grip pulled away and fell to the floor, wheezing through his damaged throat. The other two hit Porthos with wild abandon, aware that if they didn't subdue the musketeer he would escape.

Porthos fought back, but even he couldn't prevail against the onslaught. Eventually, his blows weakened and he fell senseless to the floor. The guard who had been choked recovered and staggered to his feet with the aid of his friend. They hauled the musketeer up, grunting with the effort, and dragged him through the hallway towards the stairwell.

Athos was on the ground of his cell, struggling against the black thoughts of panic and despair that crowded his mind. Aramis had made his way to his door and tried to look at d'Artagnan who had remained unconscious throughout the struggle.

"D'Artagnan," the medic said. There was no answer.

"D'Artagnan, wake up," he commanded, louder this time.

"They shot him," Athos said in a weak voice.

Aramis felt fear claw at him in a vicious, overpowering wave. Instead of fighting it, he let it overwhelm him. If he yelled, perhaps Bastian could hear him. The louder the better, then.

"D'Artagnan, wake up!" he yelled, beating his fist against the door. He felt a bright flare of pain but ignored it. The medic struck the unmoving door over and over until his strength was gone.

Finally, he slumped to the ground, his hands bruised and bleeding.

Athos curled in on himself against the wall. He could hear the ragged breaths of Aramis struggling against sobs in the cell next to him.

"Aramis, they'll find us," Athos said numbly, trying to make himself believe his own words.

"How?" Aramis shouted, his voice echoing through the cell block. "They don't know where we are! _We_ don't even know where we are!"

"Treville and the garrison will be looking for us by now," Athos answered in the monotone voice that sounded strange even to his own ears.

"It might already be too late!" Aramis yelled back. Athos didn't have an answer to that and sat back.

He shivered slightly against the cold pervading his cell, too weary to do anything else.

"D'Artagnan!" the medic called loudly, getting to his feet once again and peering through the door.

Still, there was no answer. Inside his cell, d'Artagnan lay unconscious on the floor, blood seeping out around his body in a slowly growing arc.

"_Porthos_!" Aramis screamed, kicking at his door.

Athos stared into space, hoping against hope that the plan they had just set into motion wouldn't prove useless.


	4. Chapter 4

_**A/N:**_ Hello, everyone! It is Saturday, and we all know what that means...Chapter 4 is here! So this one? Pretty heavy on the angst and whumpage going Porthos' way. I couldn't help but feel sorry, even as I was writing it. This one is mostly just exposition and development. The next one is pretty action-heavy, so bear with me. I hope you're enjoying it so far.

Huge thanks to everyone giving this story attention in any form, and special gratitude goes to those who left a review. It means a lot :)

Without further ado, insert a standard disclaimer here.

Namaste.

* * *

Porthos came to slowly, opening his eyes with some effort. Bastian was leaning against the wall opposite him, watching him regain his senses. He tried to touch his aching head and realized he was chained to the wall. They had taken the precaution of chaining his feet in a similar fashion, lest he try to escape. Porthos groggily raised his head and looked around the room through a swollen black eye.

"Are you with us now?" Bastian asked, tilting his head down a little to look into the musketeer's face.

"You gave my guards quite the scare earlier," Bastian said in a smooth voice that Porthos immediately distrusted. "They thought you may escape, even after I warned them of your prodigious strength."

"Your men were lucky. This time," Porthos said, his baritone voice sounding strong and unworried.

Bastian turned, contempt visible in his eyes. His hand darted out and slapped his captive hard across the face. The blow was glancing at most, but frightfully quick.

"The next time you so much as take a step in the wrong direction, I will kill one of your friends," he said coldly, staring into the musketeer's eyes. "Do you understand?"

With a sinking feeling, Porthos realized Bastian meant every word he said. The quiet words of Aramis' plan echoed in his head, and he forced himself to respond. "Yes," he answered, brown eyes wide.

"So, you're a musketeer as well?" Bastian asked him. "Rather surprising, actually. Clearly, you're not of noble birth, yet you protect the king of France. Tell me, is Treville in the habit of recruiting cutthroats and brigands into his service, or are you a pet project?"

Porthos lunged at him, snarling but unable to move because of the restraints. His jailer hauled his fist back and punched him in the stomach. The musketeer sagged, winded by the unexpected attack.

"I asked you a question," Bastian said in the same icy tone as before.

"I'm not the only one that came from the streets," Porthos grunted painfully, trying to pull air back into his lungs. "Most of the others are from noble houses, but not all. Treville doesn't care where we come from."

"Such a touching sentiment," the jailer remarked to himself, that odd half-smile crossing his face again. It was gone in an instant, leaving a vacant look behind that was terrifying in its emptiness.

"Porthos, I'm sure you've been told about my plans from the others. I intend to use the four of you to help me win the war for Spain. Spare me your determined words and unequivocal statements, I've already heard them," he held up a hand as the musketeer opened his mouth to speak.

"This fortress is extremely well-isolated, in a place I doubt very much your captain will find quickly. If he decides four soldiers are even worth the effort." Bastian paused, enjoying the pained look on the prisoner's face.

He paused and walked close to the large man. Bastian was so tall he was level with Porthos' eyes, and stared into them mercilessly.

"If you cooperate with me, I'll release you and your friends. I'll see that they get the medical attention they need, that you'll share a good meal, and have a decent bed on which to sleep."

Porthos tried to glare at him, but knew that the growing sense of dread showed on his face.

"Your friend downstairs, Athos, he seems to be the leader of the group. As a man of noble birth, command is almost assured to him. Coming from the streets, you've never been given the chance, have you?" he asked viciously. "Nobody's ever given you a second glance."

"That's not true," Porthos said weakly, letting his mind run away with the dark thoughts and feelings the words dredged up. The better his performance now, the greater the chance that their plan would succeed.

"I'm sure you've secretly wanted to be in command to prove yourself, even just once. Well, I'm giving you the choice, Porthos. You are now responsible for the lives of your friends. Whether they live or die depends upon your swift and complete compliance."

Bastian's voice dropped menacingly and his face showed no emotion as he continued talking.

"If you do not cooperate, I will make the time you spend here worse than any hell you could imagine. Your days will be filled with torture. At night when you try to sleep, the rats will gnaw on your fingers and toes. The remainder of your existence will be spent in filthy, lightless cells, with not even a window to glance out of in hopes of forgetting your imprisonment."

"I can see it in the way you act, Porthos. They are everything you care about. When you die, there will be no one to mourn you in all the world besides those men downstairs. And when _they_ die, you'll be alone."

Bastian stopped talking, lowering his head slightly to look at the floor. When he looked up again, his eyes were flat and unfeeling.

"Tell me, do you take pleasure in the thought of command now?"

"No," Porthos answered miserably, and two large tears rolled down his face. His jailer's cruel eyes lingered on them for a moment, then moved back to the pain-filled eyes.

Bastian's voice darkened and his face shifted back into that nightmarishly blank look.

"If you disobey even the smallest order from me, I will annihilate them, Porthos. And I'll make you watch."

He stepped back into the shadows of the room, and the three guards stepped forward. The one that Porthos had nearly strangled wore a dark ring of bruising around his neck, although he looked angry when he stepped forward with a knife. The other two guards followed him, ready to take their revenge for his escape attempt earlier.

Porthos looked to the back of the room where Bastian was standing with his arms crossed, watching the scene with cold eyes.

"If you struggle, your friends will suffer twice the duration of your stay now," he said coldly.

The musketeer hung his head low, and forced his body to relax. He had long since come to an understanding with pain. He retreated into his mind and found a bright, shining place where summer stretched out in a long path before him.

_The sun shining through the windows in Treville's office. The horses nickering to each other in the stables of the garrison. _

The blows and strikes hit Porthos relentlessly, yet he made no movement to steel himself against them. All part of the plan.

_The dying light of a sunset over a golden field. The smiling faces of his brothers around him as they camped outside the city._

All three guards were breathing hard from their exertions. Sweat glimmered on their brows and soaked their shirts. Still, they continued beating the unresisting form of the musketeer before them.

_The smell of gun polish as he stripped his weapons. The smooth texture of red wine over his tongue. _

"Enough," Bastian said, stepping forward to look at the prisoner. Porthos' head rested on his chest, blood dripping to floor in dull spatters.

_The subtle tilt of Constance's pretty face right before she smiled at him. The sound of golden coins being tossed onto a tray._

"Porthos, I want you to listen carefully," his jailer said, gripping his chin and lifting it. Porthos' eyes fluttered opened, trying to make himself listen through the ringing in his ears.

_The kindness in Aramis' eyes. D'Artagnan's reckless grin. The solemn, noble air that defined Athos in every movement._

"I want you to walk downstairs. The guards will escort you, but they'll not attempt to restrain or even touch you. You are to walk alone, of your own will, back into your cell. Do you understand?"

Porthos nodded dumbly, knowing his friends would be killed if he refused. Bastian let his head drop again.

"Release him," he ordered. A malicious sneer curled around his lips as the large man's wrists were released from the manacles. Porthos fell to the floor, breath hitching in pain.

The guards stood around him silently, waiting for him to move. Eventually, the musketeer pulled himself to his feet and shuffled slowly towards the door. He fell twice, and barely managed to get up the second time.

His jailers crowded around him like vultures, although they didn't attempt to touch him. Porthos walked down the stairs quietly, with defeat evident in every line of his body.

Bastian watched him go, his smile widening. "Soon, I will finish what I started, Leonor," he murmured quietly. "This musketeer will be the absolution of France."

* * *

Athos heard a noise from the stairs that sounded like Porthos' heavy step. He pulled himself to his feet and stood at the door, waiting for a sign that the musketeer was coming back. Finally, his friend came into view. Porthos' face was swollen and bloodied; it looked as though not a single inch had been left untouched. He also moved awkwardly, hinting at a more severe beating his bloodstained clothing concealed.

Athos' breath caught in his throat when he realized Porthos was walking without the presence of the guards.

"Porthos!" he hissed. "Get out of here! Get back to Paris and find Treville!"

The soldier continued his slow, plodding step towards the open door of his cell, not even turning his head to look at his friend.

"Porthos?" Aramis asked weakly. He dragged himself to his feet with a sound of pain; his injuries were beginning to catch up with him. "What are you doing? Run!"

The large man's shoulders slumped as he stepped into his cell without hesitation. He moved to the back of the room and stood with his face turned away from the door. A guard came up and closed it, making sure to lock it before walking away.

Before the guard left, he took a small bundle of rags and bandages, throwing them into d'Artagnan's cell, where he still lay unconscious.

"He needs to be looked after," Athos said, addressing the guard.

"He can bandage himself up," the thug snapped back, before leaving the corridor.

They stayed quiet for a moment. In the silence, Porthos thought he heard the minute scrap of cloth against stone. Bastian was listening to them from the shadows down the corridor.

"Porthos, why didn't you run?" Athos asked wearily, leaning back against the door in dejection.

The large musketeer huddled silently in the corner of his cell.

"I don't believe this," Aramis said, with a feigned anger any actor would have envied. "Given a chance to escape, the mighty Porthos chooses to walk meekly back to his cell. Do you realize that may have been our only chance?"

"Aramis," Athos began in an admonishing tone. He played into the exchange, also assuming they were being observed.

"You should've run! At least you would have gotten away!" the medic continued, heedless of the comte's words. "Thanks to you, no one will even be able to recover our corpses!"

Porthos winced slightly, although he didn't move or break his silence.

"Aramis, that's enough," Athos said, pitching his voice into a low unease.

"No!" Aramis shouted. "He'll never let any of us go! We'll all die here, because of your cowardice, Porthos!" He punched the door in rage, making a banging sound ring out through the cell block.

Porthos flinched at the unexpected noise, then rolled his eyes slightly at the insult.

"What would you have him do?" Athos asked, defending the wordless Porthos. "Leave all of us here to be slaughtered like animals? You know what it would have done to him."

"That's exactly what he should have done!" Aramis snarled back.

Bastian smiled to himself in the dark, then crept away soundlessly. The musketeers continued their argument for several minutes, slowly falling silent.

"He's gone," Athos said quietly.

"Do you think he believed it?" Aramis asked.

"I hope so," came Porthos near-whisper baritone. "Aramis, when we get out of here, you and I need to talk about a few of the insults you directed towards me. I feel as though I'd have to pick a fight with the entirety of the Red Guard to reclaim my honor."

"Porthos, you are one of the most honorable men I have ever met. It's scum like Bastian who could learn a thing or two. You know I meant none of what I said," Aramis said, smiling despite himself.

"Did you really have to insult him so thoroughly?" Athos asked dryly. "I can understand an affront to his bravery and character, but calling him "a blockhead with weight issues" was hardly appropriate, Aramis."

"Now, wait a moment—" the handsome medic began.

"I happen to weigh the perfect amount for someone of my size, _Ara_mis," Porthos said in a superior tone.

The handsome medic rolled his eyes good-naturedly and was about to reply when a slight shuffling sound interrupted them.

"D'Artagnan!" Athos exclaimed.

The Gascon opened his eyes and lay still. Pain rolled over him in heavy waves, shooting all through his arm.

"Where did he get you?" Aramis asked anxiously.

"Left shoulder," the young musketeer said, groaning in pain.

"They left some bandages for you," Porthos said in a voice that was almost inaudible.

D'Artagnan forced himself into a sitting position with a groan. "Porthos, why are you whispering?"

"Porthos isn't talking to us," Aramis said in a matter-of-fact tone.

"I'll do what I damn well please," Porthos muttered to himself.

"Why?" the Gascon asked, bewilderment obvious in his voice.

"Aramis insulted him, and he's rather offended," Athos said before anyone else could speak.

"Oh, my God," Aramis said, raising his eyes to the ceiling. "I didn't mean to say you had a weight problem, Porthos."

"Was Bastian here?" d'Artagnan asked, smiling despite the pain. He felt around for the bandages.

"Yes," Athos said, sounding almost smug. "He's chosen Porthos to be his traitor. Be sure to direct your innermost feelings of hatred towards him in the future. A few well-placed invectives may also be prudent."

"Tease him about his weight," Aramis said gleefully, completely abandoning his apologetic air. "He hates that."

"Aramis, you'd do well to watch your back when we return to Paris," Porthos whispered menacingly. "It seems to me that your head has an appointment with a rain barrel."

"If you can get it to fit," Athos murmured. Regardless of his efforts, his voice carried well over the small space.

Despite the sharp throbbing in his shoulder, d'Artagnan found himself struggling not to laugh. Gathering the bandages, he carefully probed at the edges of the wound.

"It looks like it passed cleanly through," the Gascon said, looking critically at the edges and feeling the matching hole on the other side of his arm gingerly.

"Wrap the bandage around both, if you can," Aramis advised, hating that he couldn't help his friend.

"I know," d'Artagnan said, although he had turned slightly pale at the pain caused by the binding.

''Are you alright?" Athos asked, hearing the unspoken words.

There was a long moment of silence, then a shaky exhalation as the musketeer pulled the bandages tight.

"Yes," he said, winding the bandage around his arm again and again. With each wind, the cloth pulled on the wound, but stopped the sluggish blood flow. Slowly, the pain died back down to a manageable level. D'Artagnan leaned back carefully against the wall. He realized he was covered in sweat, and suddenly felt exhausted.

"Tomorrow will be our real test," Aramis said quietly. "Do you think Treville realizes something is wrong?"

"Constance will have," d'Artagnan said drowsily. "She'll have gone to the Captain already. They're probably planning our rescue right now."

"If they know where to look," Athos said with a small sigh.

"They'll figure it out," the Gascon answered back, little more than a slur as he fell asleep.

"Such optimism," Aramis said fondly.

"I agree with him," Porthos said. "We'll try our best to get out, but we need to trust the Captain. He'll come for us."

"I hope you're right," the medic answered, lying down on the floor. He curled himself into a ball to conserve body heat and fell asleep on the floor. They all sank into exhausted slumber, save for Athos.

The hours slowly dragged by. The musketeer had been awake for so long, his limbs shook with tiredness. Still, he wouldn't allow himself to sleep. When he felt his eyes drooping, he forced himself to his feet and paced in his cell, shivering with the cold.

A part of him asked why he was afraid to sleep. Deep down, he knew they were all missing something important. There was a crucial detail that tied the entire situation together. Something they had all overlooked. All through the night, he attempted to find the missing link with the information he had been given. He speculated about possible connections, and finally had to admit defeat. About an hour before dawn, he couldn't resist the need for rest any longer. He laid down and was asleep almost instantly.

* * *

"This map shows the entirety of France, with the exception of a few ports to the South," Treville said. He was standing at a table in the yard of the garrison. All the musketeers crowded silently around him, glancing down at the table while he spoke.

"Heather is known to grow in the northern regions here, and farther west," the Captain continued, pointing at the map. Constance stood by his left shoulder, brow furrowed slightly in worry.

"We know they were taken by some of Dularurier's ilk. We just need to find out where," the Captain muttered, nervously chewing on his mustache.

"Begging your pardon, sir," a voice came from the crowd, "but how do we know they were taken somewhere with heather growin' around it? Seems to me that's how they got caught in the first place. I don't think they'd be fool enough to try it again."

"If you have any other ideas, please express them here," Treville said graciously, looking up to the inquiring musketeer. To his surprise, Antoine, the young stable hand, elbowed his way through the congregation.

"There are a few abandoned bastions scattered throughout the countryside," he said, sounding confident. "If I was going to kidnap a few musketeers and keep them for an extended length of time, I'd bring them somewhere they couldn't easily escape. They could be turned into makeshift prisons if need be, and they're fairly secluded at tactical locations."

"The lad may just be right," an older musketeer murmured to his friend, who shook his head, clearly unimpressed. The musketeers started murmuring to each other, which quickly grew to a dull roar within the garrison walls.

Treville frowned and pounded the table with a fist. The crowd of soldiers instantly went silent.

"I think the idea of the bastions is a good place to start, and it's a damn sight nicer than wandering around the country looking for flowers," Treville said, nodding with approval towards Antoine, who looked absurdly pleased with himself.

"We'll divide into two groups. One group will take the known bastions in the north and east. The other will take those in the far west and south. There are inns all throughout each province and many of the towns where a musketeer can obtain writing instruments. I expect reports sent by courier from the other groups no later than three days apart, sooner if possible."

The musketeers nodded, knowing that it was expected.

"Alright, you lot, listen," Treville said, lowering his voice and leaning in. "They've taken the lads. They may not be alive. We may never find them. But we owe it to them to try. They would do the same for us, as would any musketeer."

The captain fixed them all with a steely gaze which clearly showed a gruff kind of pride for his soldiers.

"We are more than friends. We are brothers. We are the garrison. We are musketeers!" he shouted, drawing his sword and raising it in the air.

"All for one!"

The air was filled with the simultaneous drawing of forty-five swords. Every soldier looked at their captain with determination and shouted in unison:

"_And one for all!"_


	5. Chapter 5

**_A/N:_** Hi everyone! First, I'd like to thank everyone for their continued support on this fic. It's pretty great to know that so many people are enjoying it so far! Here is chapter 5. I don't know when I'll be able to update again, because I don't have the final chapter written yet and real-life things are picking up. But to make up for it, this chapter is about the length of two chapters combined (because I didn't know where to cut it off without losing the action). Hope everyone enjoys! R&R, you know the drill ;)

Standard disclaimer applies. No money changed hands. No names were changed to protect the innocent.

Namaste.

* * *

Antoine breathed out nervously and fought the urge to fiddle with the trigger of his musket. He leaned carefully against the wall, and the musketeers surrounding him did the same. All eyes were trained on the heavy wooden door directly in front of them. The musketeer leading their group was a strong, tall man with sharp brown eyes named Henri. He stood in front of the group with one hand on the doorknob. He looked back to his soldiers, who all reaffirmed that they were ready by a single nod.

"On my mark," Henri said quietly, then held up a finger. In one swift motion, he dropped his hand and yanked the door open. Twenty pistols and muskets were all aimed simultaneously through the doorway as several ran in, looking carefully in every direction.

Antoine followed the group, making sure the blind spots of the musketeer in front of him were covered as well as he could manage in the dim light. The soldier behind him did the same, and so on. They crept warily through the room, hearing their footsteps echo through the stone hallways.

The young stable hand repressed a shudder at the thought of being kept in this lightless place, at the mercy of the captor and the innumerable vile creatures which came to gnaw on your body whilst sleep harbored you in a pitiful mockery of escape.

He kept these gloomy thoughts to himself and cautiously observed his surroundings. Someone from behind him passed a torch, and he found himself immeasurably grateful for the light it provided.

In the brilliance the flame threw, Antoine gazed more clearly at the room. His heart sank.

Spiders had spun thick cobwebs from the ceiling to the floor. The floor was an ocean of dust that swirled and eddied around his boots with every careful step. There wasn't even a skeleton shackled to the bare walls. It was clear that the bastion had been entirely devoid of life for many years.

Behind him, several musketeers swore aloud with fury and disappointment. Antoine felt his temper rise at yet another dead end, and struggled to school his features into cold indifference.

He spun around to leave the room. One of the soldiers behind him put a hand on the young man's shoulder to console him, but Antoine shrugged it off and stomped outside the bastion.

The yard approaching the fortress was deserted, and the young soldier took off his gloves and threw them in anger at the ground with a cry of fury. He closed his eyes, taking a deep breath and feeling the light of the setting sun on his face.

Among those at the garrison, Antoine was a cadet—barely. He worked in the stables and took care of the practicing equipment, because Treville felt he was too young and too inexperienced to train in earnest with the other men. He had been given special permission to go on this mission because they had needed all available men in the search parties.

He'd never admit it aloud, but his respect for the Inseparables bordered on hero-worship. He had watched their missions quietly from the background, being careful never to draw attention to himself. Even with the limited information he heard, he knew without doubt that all four men were the reason the musketeers remained in good standing with the King of France. Someday he hoped to join their ranks, but for now, he just sat quietly in the stables, minding his business and biding his time.

He nearly jumped when a strong hand fell onto his shoulder. He turned around to meet the firm but not unkind gaze of Henri, the squad leader.

"Lad, you've got to have patience. We knew this wasn't going to be an easy task from the beginning," he said, mercilessly squashing his own feelings of frustration with the situation.

"This is the third bastion we've checked," Antoine said civilly enough, although his dark eyes flashed with undisguised fury.

"And in as many days. Even if they were alive when we left Paris, at this rate—" he swallowed convulsively.

"We've got to be prepared for that eventuality," Henri said grimly, hating himself for saying it when he saw Antoine's shoulders drooped in defeat.

"I know. I just thought that this one would be different," the young man said in a harsh voice, turning away to hide the crushing disappointment he felt.

"We'll find them, Antoine," the elder musketeer said, gazing with concern at the soldier before him.

The young soldier squared his shoulders and tried to compose himself.

"I know," he repeated, managing to smile though his eyes were filled with tears. The leader clapped him on the shoulder, then turned back to the fortress, barking orders to abandon the search attempt. The musketeers dutifully reappeared outside the crumbling edifice and remounted their horses.

The dying sunset cast everything in a flaming orange light, yet the soldiers knew they would not stop for several hours more.

Antoine cast one last despondent glance over his shoulder at the deserted building. It had been one of the final remaining bastions relatively close to Paris. It would take them at least another day and a half to reach the next fortress on their list, and even farther to meet up with Treville's company moving farther to the south.

He sighed and slouched down in the saddle, beginning to hate the sight of the narrow, winding path in front of him.

* * *

The Inseparables were woken rudely at first light by the harsh clanking of chains outside their cells. The brutes opened the doors to their cells and jerked them up without a word. Athos was the first on his feet, fighting a groan of pain as his abused body protested the movement. The guards unlocked his door and dragged him out. Heavy shackles were tightened around his wrists and ankles, and the musketeer was forced into the hall, along with Porthos, Aramis and d'Artagnan, the last of which looked around groggily as if still half asleep.

They were all forcefully urged up the stairs, stumbling on the worn wood beneath their feet. The guards corralled them into the room at the top of the landing, where they waited uncomfortably. Another guard came behind Porthos and kicked him in the back of the knees. The large soldier let out a surprised grunt as he fell onto the floor. The others quickly knelt, trying to save themselves that particular pain. Their tormentors snickered and left the room, slamming the door loudly behind them.

Aramis winced at the pain in his legs, and glanced across Porthos' broad chest to where Athos was kneeling on the other side. The eldest musketeer had a look plastered on his face that clearly stated he was downright bored. Only the slight wrinkle of his forehead gave away the pain he was feeling. Aramis wished he could be so unperturbed.

On Aramis' other side, d'Artagnan swayed slightly on his knees and blinked hard. His head was swimming, and cohesive thoughts seemed beyond his command. He wasn't aware that he had listed to the right until he brushed against the solid form of Aramis next to him. The Gascon jerked himself back upright reflexively, like one on the verge of falling asleep.

"D'Artagnan?" Aramis asked worriedly. "What's wrong?"

"Nothing," he denied in a voice that sounded odd to his own ears.

The other musketeers looked at him anxiously. Under the grime, his complexion was pale, and beads of sweat stood out on his brow amidst lines of discomfort or pain.

"You've taken a fever," Athos murmured, keeping one ear tuned to the stairwell behind them.

"Can't be helped," d'Artagnan answered, trying for a brave smile.

Porthos opened his mouth to speak when the door opened behind them.

They all turned slightly, to see Bastian walk serenely into the room.

"Good morning, musketeers," he said. "I trust you've had sufficient rest after yesterday's exertions?"

No one answered, but they all threw him dark glares.

Bastian looked untroubled at their outward hostility and stood before them with his hands clasped loosely behind him.

"You've been here for a few days now; I think you're finally in the proper state of mind to hear my proposal and visualize its entirety."

"The only thing I can visualize is running you through with my sword," Aramis muttered, the words slipping out before he could stop them.

Bastian backhanded him, splitting his bottom lip, and making the musketeer inhale sharply.

"I don't think you understand yet," he said patiently. He made a gesture and a thug stepped towards the group. The rough-looking, huge man dropped to a knee behind Athos and had him in a headlock immediately.

Athos struggled against the hold, but the brute just sneered and trapped one of Athos' well-shaped hands under his knee on the floor.

"Listening to your friends being hurt is one thing. Having to watch it, well." Bastian smiled viciously as the guard twisted his kneecap onto Athos' fingers mercilessly.

The musketeer couldn't stop the surprised gasp of pain as he felt the delicate bones in his hand make cracking noises under the pressure.

The eldest musketeer tried to fight against the iron grip, but he was too tired, too weak from days without proper rest and nourishment. His oxygen being severely restricted, he attempted to slow his breathing and remain calm.

Everything seemed too bright, a white light began tinging everything in his vision and the blood roared in his ears.

Aramis saw his friend losing his hold on consciousness, and yelled, "Enough!" in a panic.

The brute finally released him and the air wheezed painfully through his bruised throat.

"I suggest you listen very carefully to what I'm going to offer you. There will not be a second chance," Bastian told them. Athos' ears were ringing; he could barely hear his captor.

They all stared dumbly at the man before them. None of them doubted a word; they all knew what the terrible creature in front of them was capable of.

"Denounce your musketeers," he said, voice and face completely serious. "Denounce your king. Swear allegiance to me, and all of this will stop. Work with me, and help me turn the tide of war. You've heard the old axiom, 'soonest begun, soonest done'? I need men of your caliber to assist me.

"The stories of your accomplishments have reached even this godforsaken place. The musketeers who saved the king's life and the queen's reputation. Those brave soldiers who would chance everything on a worn dream and a shred of hope, simply because they love the chaos of battle."

"If you help me, I can promise you protection from this terrible war. You'll be helping your fellow countrymen by showing them the truth and exposing the King for who he really is," he said, voice gaining volume and a certain passion as he spoke.

Porthos looked at him flatly with hatred, while Aramis pursed his lips, trying to think of a way out.

Bastian gazed at his prisoners, then took a few steps to the right when he saw d'Artagnan.

The Gascon's eyes were half-closed, and the corners of his mouth trembled in lines of pain as the beads of sweat rolled down his face. His breath was light, indicating that the young man wasn't firmly entrenched in the present.

Bastian pulled his chin up with a strong hand, making his eyelids fly open partly, only to flutter closed again moments later.

"You're not doing so well, are you, d'Artagnan?" their jailer said sympathetically. "Infection is starting to set into that shoulder of yours."

"'m fine," the musketeer whispered, head pounding sickly.

"Of course you are," Bastian agreed easily, releasing him. D'Artagnan's chin dropped back down to his chest as he fell into a semi-doze. His mind shifted murkily from the present, reminiscing hazily about a sunshine-filled past in Gascony.

Aramis stole a sidelong glance at their friend, wincing.

"The day is yet young, musketeers," the man continued. "Today will be the test of your resolve. You'll go with me and a few of my men to complete a business transaction."

"What do we need to do?" Porthos asked resignedly, the first words he had uttered since the night before.

"You traitor," Aramis said viciously, launching himself towards the man before Bastian could react.

They went down in a heap, and Aramis swung a hard knee into Porthos' unprotected midsection, knocking the wind out of him.

"You don't get to speak! Not after what you did to us!" Aramis snarled, face contorted with fury as the guards pulled them apart.

Bastian watched the scene unfold, hiding any inward feelings of delight beneath a veneer of indifference.

"What did he offer you?" Aramis asked quietly, voice edged with bitterness. "It must have been beyond measure, for you to betray the only friends you have left in the world. I hope it was worth it."

"Who are you to judge me so harshly?" Porthos fired back, causing d'Artagnan to stir uneasily from his semi-conscious state and look around blearily.

"I had to save myself; that's the way it's always been! I was a child, growing up alone in the Court of Miracles. All those miserable days and wretched nights, I stayed alive because it was the only thing I had! It didn't matter that I had nothing to look forward to and nothing worth remembering. The only thing that held any meaning for me was getting through another day in that stinking hellhole! Nothing has changed except this time I'm stuck with you!"

Aramis' seething look of anger was impossible to ignore. Porthos kept his countenance stern. This could well be their only chance at fooling Bastian. Something in the man's keen gaze made him want to squirm uncomfortably. It felt like their true intentions were on display for the world to see.

"That was well said," Bastian finally intoned. "I want you to go out in the field with me this afternoon," he said, looking directly at Porthos. "You as well," he said, pointing to Aramis.

"D'Artagnan will stay here as collateral, just in case you get any bright ideas of escaping," he added snidely.

With a languid hand gesture, he motioned to the guards who had retreated to the corners of the room silently.

They stepped forward and grabbed d'Artagnan's weak, feverish form. With a quiet groan of discomfort at being moved so quickly, they hauled him out of the room. His head lolled down to his chest, and he lacked the strength to lift his feet as he was dragged away.

Athos tried to say something and only managed a strangled sound that quickly ended in a fit of violent coughing that left his throat burning.

"Don't be so melodramatic, Athos," Bastian said. "You're staying too."

The musketeer glared at Bastian with every ounce of hatred he could muster as he was manhandled out of the room. The man just stared back, unsmiling. The chains around the musketeer's wrists and ankles rattled loudly and the door slammed behind the soldiers, leaving Bastian alone in the room.

He stared at the closed door, although his mind was another lifetime away. Two gunshots echoed in the halls of his memory. _Everything would work out for once_, he thought somewhat incoherently. _Just this once_.

* * *

Antoine paced the length of the small room, chewing on a ragged thumbnail.

Soldiers lounged everywhere on the floor, sprawled out on the steps in the midafternoon sun and sitting at the bar, drinking wine quietly. Despite the number of men, they were all subdued and looked gloomy at another day's waste of time.

The innkeeper, a nervous-looking little man was flitting about anxiously, asking if they required any services.

A few soldiers smiled at him indulgently and attempted to ease his worries.

Henri walked into the inn after giving his horse over to a stable hand. He joined Antoine, who stood at attention when he saw him.

"Another fortress checked, and still nothing," the older soldier said. "You'd think we would have heard something by now."

"The only thing we can do now is join up with Treville's forces at the last bastion on the map. We should be there late tomorrow evening, if all goes well," Antoine answered, relaxing his posture. The young stable hand sighed heavily and scrubbed a weary hand across his face.

The leader looked at him with sympathy and was about to suggest he get some rest, when there was a general commotion behind them.

Antoine turned just in time to see a musketeer stepping back and held steadying hands towards an elderly gentleman whom he had clearly just run into by accident. The soldier offered his apology, but the old man turned an eye shining with anger toward him and drew a pistol from his belt in a movement too fast for the human eye to track. With a growl, he leveled it smoothly at the head of the soldier who had bumped into him.

The near-silent inn burst into a cacophony of shouted oaths and curses. Cries of surprise cut through the air along with the sound of a dozen chairs being scraped across the floor as the soldiers scattered. Tables were overturned to form makeshift barricades, and half-filled glasses of wine fell to the ground in a musical shatter.

The poor innkeeper turned pale as a sheet and looked ready to faint.

The unlucky musketeer who had brushed against the gnarled figure immediately leapt back and drew his own pistol.

"Stop!" several soldiers ordered at once. Twenty guns around the room were trained on the old man, who had not lowered his own pistol.

"Lay down your arms," the leader of the search party ordered in a calm voice. "We do not wish to hurt you, sir. Move along, there is no damage done."

"No damage done?" the old man said irascibly. "Your men would do well to watch where they step, and learn to respect their elders."

"I meant no offense, monsieur," the musketeer said in a bewildered, yet contrite voice. "Truly, I apologize. You came from the stairwell so suddenly that I had no time—"

"You young men, always in a rush," the elderly man muttered to himself. "No time for common decency, or proper manners."

With a snort of derision, he holstered his gun and shuffled to the back of the room, kicking an overturned chair bad-naturedly.

Antoine breathed out, feeling the adrenaline sing through his limbs though the danger had passed.

"Who the hell was that?" one of the soldiers muttered to his friend.

"His name is Colville," the unfortunate owner of the inn stammered, falling rather than sitting into the nearest chair as if his legs didn't have the strength to hold him up any longer.

One of the musketeers took pity on him and poured a glass of Anjou wine, setting it before the man. He took it with a trembling hand and swallowed it in one large gulp.

"He's a vagrant; he comes through once in a while and stops at my inn. He always pays for his room and board, although where he gets the money, I've no idea."

"Just an old fool," said the musketeer who had come close to breathing his last.

Impossibly, the inn keeper paled further.

"No, no! Not a fool, and you mustn't say it! Ears like a bat, that one has." He dropped his voice conspiratorially.

"He's the sharpest man on this side of the Loire. They say he knows things from the old days that even the wisest have forgotten over the years. He's also extremely volatile, so sirs, please," the unhappy man pleaded with tears in his eyes. "Please, take heed! Be cautious around him, for your own sake and the sake of my establishment."

"We'll do our best not to rouse him," one of the soldiers said, looking over the innkeeper's bald head at his comrade who shrugged.

Colville had stomped over to a table in the corner of the room by himself, watching the room through hate-filled, bitter eyes and sipped at a cup of hard ale.

Antoine quietly extricated himself from the surrounding soldiers and sidled towards the irascible gentleman.

"What do you want, boy?" he sneered, glaring insolently at the young man.

"I would like to apologize on my comrade's behalf," he said politely. "May I buy you another?" he pointed to the foul-smelling brew in front of the man.

"I don't need charity from the likes of you," Colville muttered, wiping his nose on his sleeve. "Run along and play soldier, before your mum calls you in to bed."

"I ask only that you share a drink with me," the stable hand said evenly, refusing to be riled.

The old man stared him down, but Antoine didn't lower his gaze.

"Go on, then," he finally said, flapping a hand towards the young man, who immediately sat down to avoid drawing more attention to himself. He sat quietly for a few minutes, gesturing to the innkeeper, who rushed over immediately with more drinks, then ran as fast as his short legs would carry him.

Colville rolled his eyes and took a long swig of the strong ale. Antoine only stared into the dark liquid in his cup.

The old man looked him up and down with a keen eye.

"You've been through some difficulties in your time, haven't you, boy?" he asked finally. "You've got that look about you."

"No worse than anyone else," Antoine answered with a shrug, taking a sip of the bitter brew.

"You're different than this lot," Colville insisted. "Not like this bunch. Stupid, rough-handed oafs, the lot of them."

"We're members of the King's musketeers," the young soldier replied automatically, though he was too tired to put any anger behind the words.

"Maybe," the old man grunted noncommittally and drained his second mug.

"We're looking for our comrades. Four soldiers, the best in the musketeer regiment," Antoine said quietly, looking the man dead in the eyes.

"Can't have been too skilled, if they allowed themselves to be taken so easily," the old man sniffed.

Suddenly, Antoine was furious.

Four great men missing, and this drunkard was insulting their memory, as easily as one shakes the dust from a pair of boots, without even knowing them.

"You speak in haste, sir," Antoine said, keeping his tone civil. "You do not know these men sufficiently to judge them so."

"Don't need to," the old man said rudely. Antoine's fist clenched around the glass, and he forced his hand to relax before he broke it.

"You soldiers are all alike. Throwing your weight around, using the uniform of a musketeer to hide behind when you commit some stupidity like cheating at cards, or drinking and causing fights in taverns. Your men probably entered into a brothel and haven't returned from their sojourn. They'll come back when their mistresses turn them out at the cockcrow."

Antoine stood up, and drew his pistol smoothly, pointing it at the bridge of the man's nose before him.

"Stand down!" Henri yelled to him from across the room, heart sinking as he realized that a full-fledged duel was about to break out.

"Insult them again, old man, and I swear it will be the last thing you utter in this world," Antoine said quietly, although the words carried in the now silent interior of the inn. "Those men are honorable beyond measure, and any one of them is worth four of the likes of you. You are talking of the finest soldiers in France, not some tavern drunkard with red eyes and a bad disposition."

Colville stared at him calmly from his seat at the table, looking past the gun barrel to the face of his accuser.

"Draw your pistol if you like," Antoine told him, just as civilly as the first. "But pray to God above that we kill each other in one shot, because anything more than that will lead to serious tragedy, both for my comrades and the innkeeper's livelihood."

The old man stared at the stubborn lines of the youth's face in front of him and started laughing. Great, bellowing guffaws of humor escaped this man loudly, who had seemed to forget that there was a pistol glinting dully five inches from his forehead.

He shook with the force of his cackles, and tears ran from his eyes. Finally, he subsided to chuckles and looked at Antoine with a new respect.

"I like you, boy. You really _are_ different." He stood up easily, and Antoine holstered his weapon again, grasping the man's strong grip in his own. The innkeeper had long since fainted dead away with fright.

"These comrades of yours, where are you looking?" Colville asked, shuffling over to the main group.

One of the members of the search party scrambled briefly to lay out their map on the counter.

"We've searched these abandoned garrisons, here, here and here," one of the soldiers told him, pointing at the locations. "They're bound to be in an abandoned fortress or bastion, somewhere they could be imprisoned and held without difficulty or fear of being found. This is the last one we have marked, and other search parties are already making their way towards it."

"Oh, come now. Do you really think whoever took them is going to put them in a place known to every blasted platoon of soldiers in the country? It's a wonder you haven't found your deaths, wanderin' about this way!" Colville exclaimed in ill-temper, dropping his almost friendly demeanor.

"Can you help us or not?" one of the soldiers asked impatiently.

Colville muttered something rude under his breath and reached his hand out. They looked at him in confusion until he snapped his gnarled fingers impatiently. A piece of chalk was handed to him, and he scribbled on the map.

"These are all bastions, true. But what about the one here? It's surrounded by a thick forest on one side, and a mountain range on the other. In the days of King Henry IV, God rest his soul, it was used as a military outpost in case those damned Sicilians ever thought of attacking us."

He paused. "Average soldiers, but cunning and sly as the devil, Italians. The location of the fortress has long gone unknown in the minds of men. However, it's not impossible to find it, if one is searching hard enough for somewhere to hide, do you ken?" He fixed them all with a steely gaze.

"We'd better tell Treville," one of the soldiers said.

Henri snapped his fingers and a pen, paper and inkwell appeared on the table as if by magic. He hastily scribbled out a message and sealed it as quickly as possible. A courier boy stood awkwardly near the crowd, waiting to be summoned.

The squad leader gave him the paper and bade him ride as swiftly as possible without killing his horse outright. The boy nodded in understanding, ran out of the inn and galloped away like the devil himself was on his heels a few moments later.

"We'll head out to the forest of Pierrefonds, and wait for Treville to meet us there," Henri addressed his musketeers. "With luck, he'll reach the meeting place just after we do tomorrow by midday. He'll have checked the last remaining fortress by that point, just in case we're wrong about this. Then we can combine our forces and storm it together the day after tomorrow."

"Here's one that knows how to use his head, when he chooses," Colville said approvingly to no one in particular.

"Everyone, saddle your horses," Henri called. "We leave in half an hour."

The soldiers moved quickly, hastily packing rucksacks and paying for their wine bottles. Antoine turned towards the old man again.

"Thank you," he said simply.

"Thank me when you've brought your friends back, lad," Colville said suddenly, looking at the man before him seriously. "A word of advice, if you'd hear it: don't let yourself be looked over. Lightning never strikes the valley, boy. Remember that."

"I will." Antoine answered, grateful for the simple advice.

"Antoine, help saddle the horses!" the leader bellowed over the noise of the soldiers.

Colville watched the lad turn to his work, then shrugged his shoulders and went back to the lonely table in the corner with the smoky candle.

* * *

When he saw the last soldier leave in a trailing group from the inn, Colville got up and threw a few coins carelessly on the table. He left the inn as quickly as he could, and went outside to where a middle-aged, rough looking man was leaning against the outer wall aimlessly. He watched the company of musketeers depart intently.

"Did you see the messenger that left a few minutes ago?" Colville asked breathlessly.

The stranger nodded once, and his strange, liquid-looking black eyes fixed on the old man's shriveled frame.

"Catch him. That message must not reach the Captain of the musketeers. Do you understand?" Colville asked.

The stranger's face creased into a wide smile that was chilling in its childlike simplicity, before nodding again.

"When you've finished your…active conversation with the lad, go to the fortress and warn Bastian that there's a group of soldiers headed his way. He'll want to be prepared."

The man nodded again and strode over to the stables. In a few minutes, a horse was saddled and the man leapt into the saddle gracefully. Colville watched him ride away, feeling a sick kind of satisfaction curling in his stomach.

He walked back to the front of the inn. The innkeeper was trembling visibly now, and beads of sweat rolled down his face with every tremor of his body.

"You did well, _monsieur_," Colville assured him quietly, pressing a small purse full of pistoles into his hands. "You said everything just right, and I thank you for it. Best of all, _he_ will be pleased," the man murmured, putting special emphasis on the word.

The money fell from the hapless innkeeper's trembling hand, and he sank to the floor in shock.

"My God, what have I done?" he said to himself in an unsteady voice laced with tones of horror.

Colville smiled down at him benevolently.

"You have helped remove the one obstacle that could have stopped us. Take pride! It's a great thing, and a great day!"

But the innkeeper had once again fainted. Colville looked at him a moment longer, then strode away, signaling for another messenger.

"Go to Paris," the old man told him, pressing a gold coin and a piece of parchment into the boy's hands. "There's another pistole for you if you can get there before tomorrow afternoon. Here, take this," he added, taking a ring from one of his grimy pockets. It was beautiful and bore a dark stone engraved with crossed lines set in a circle of lesser gemstones.

"Show this seal to the people in the inns along the way. They will understand and get you a fresh horse immediately. It is vital that this message be delivered only to whom it is addressed."

He made the boy repeat his instructions back to him a few times, to ensure their accuracy. After he was satisfied, the messenger took off at a run and rode his horse as fast as the animal could travel.

* * *

D'Artagnan drifted uncertainly back to consciousness. A headache pulsed behind his eyes, and he felt slightly sick to his stomach. Even before he opened his eyes, he knew there was someone in the room with him. Cracking his eyelids open, he realized he was in his cell once again lying on the floor. There was a thin, scratchy horse blanket beneath him that insulated him from the chill of the dungeon floor. Bastian knelt above him, working over something at his side.

The musketeer could only manage a pained groan and tried to put as much distance between him and his tormentor as possible. At the first movement, however, searing pain shot through his entire left side and he had to slump back to his prone position. His face lost all color and he could only gasp out curses between shallow breaths of air.

"Relax," Bastian told him gently, reaching towards him with something. D'Artagnan closed his eyes and waited for the pain. Instead, a cool rag was laid across his feverish brow. It seemed to the Gascon to be made from the lightest silk in the world, mixed with water from the purest source. The feeling of cold water and a clean towel after so many days of hardship and grime was indescribable.

He was unable to hide all the relief on his face, and Bastian saw the signs in his expression.

"I've dressed the wound in your shoulder; it should heal nicely now. You did a poor job of packing it the first time, although I suppose that isn't your fault."

"You did?" d'Artagnan asked slowly, prodding at the edges of a stiff white bandage on his arm. "I don't remember—"

"You were quite senseless the entire time, my young friend," Bastian said easily, wetting the cloth again. "We weren't sure if you were going to survive the ordeal, to be completely frank. However, it seems you're stronger than you look."

"Where's….Athos?" he asked drowsily, trying to get his thoughts cohesive enough to remember what had occurred.

"He's in his cell. I'll tend to his wounds next. I imagine he's sleeping now," Bastian remarked as he spun the top off of a water canteen.

"He'll have to be quiet for a while; I imagine his throat hurts very badly at this moment."

"Aramis and Porthos?" the Gascon muttered, struggling to keep his eyes open.

"Waiting for me. I'll join them once I've finished here," Bastian replied, not losing his calm tone. "Here, drink this."

D'Artagnan felt a smooth surface brush against his lips, and then water which tasted like nectar from a beautiful flower passed across his dry, swollen tongue and cracked, bleeding lips.

He swallowed in shock and succeeded only in choking himself momentarily. Bastian pounded him on the back and helped him sit up patiently.

"Not so much at once," he admonished lightly, holding the canteen to his lips once more.

D'Artagnan obeyed, and the water soothed his aching throat and the pain in his head died down to a tolerable level.

He felt his eyes closing of their own accord. The blanket beneath him was helping to retain his body heat, and he curled instinctively towards the patch of warmth that lulled him to sleep.

"Not yet, d'Artagnan." A voice jerked him back into the present. "You need to eat."

A small piece of bread, and some fish were pressed lightly into his hand. His fingers closed around them, and he began to eat mechanically. Suddenly, his mouth was alight with the flavor, and his eyes shot open. All his weariness was forgotten in an instant as he devoured the food he was given in a few wolfish bites.

"Is that a little better?" Bastian asked, unsurprised at the fervor in the man's movements. He knew what it was to be a hungry prisoner.

D'Artagnan nodded, and sleepily closed his eyes again, tiredness pooled in his limbs.

"Rest now," Bastian said, pulling another old blanket over him. "The next time you see me, our first mission will have been completed.

The musketeer whined lowly in his throat and tried to protest, but sleep rolled over him in a black wave. He struggled, then gave up and let it carry him away.

The tormentor gazed at the sleeping face, composed in peaceful lines. He then sighed quietly, and left the room.

D'Artagnan didn't stir as the shadow of his prison door fell over his motionless form. He slept undisturbed, his mind transported out of the darkness and into a warm place where Constance waited for him and the world was new again.

Athos' head jerked up as he heard the doors hinges give their customary unearthly shriek. Bastian appeared in the doorway, freezing in surprise when he saw that the musketeer was still awake.

"I thought you'd be sleeping by now," he murmured, entering the cell.

Athos threw him a look containing more contempt and disdain than any words could have accomplished.

Bastian passed him a canteen full of water. The former comte took it and drank deeply, not removing his eyes from the man.

"I have some food too, if you'd like," Bastian offered, holding out the food. Athos took it serenely enough, although the cruel leader could see that his hand shook slightly as he reached for the morsels.

"D'Artagnan's wound has been properly cleaned and dressed," he continued as the musketeer wolfed down his portion ravenously.

"He was awake for a little while, and he seemed coherent enough. His fever's gone down, and he even ate and drank a little."

Athos tried to garble something out and ended up wincing in pain.

"If you're wondering why, it's because you're an important bargaining tool. You have more use to me alive than dead at the moment. Besides, I can't have you dying before we've even started," Bastian added in a slightly ironic tone, his brilliant eyes searching the depths of the comte's face. Something in the soldier's lack of response must have disappointed him, because he sighed again and got up to leave the room.

"When he awakes, I think d'Artagnan will be in a much better state of mind," he said, preparing to leave. "Goodbye for now, Athos."

The door closed loudly behind him, and Athos slumped back against the wall exhaustedly. His ribs ached fiercely, and his throat burned painfully despite the cool water he had carefully swallowed.

He felt dazed, and staying focused was requiring much more effort than it should have. He tilted his head back against the uneven stones. Despite his entire body aching with tiredness, his eyes refused to close. So he stayed awake, listening in vain for the soft sounds of his friend breathing in the next cell and hoped against hope that Aramis and Porthos would be alright.

* * *

"There is a carriage carrying a nobleman and his manservant coming our way." Bastian spoke to the two musketeers in a low whisper. They were situated near a secluded, nameless road through the forest, almost entirely hidden by the thick trees and undergrowth.

"Inside, will be a strongbox full of jewels and a few documents that may include the deed to an estate and certain other valuable possessions. I want everything taken, do you understand? You are to leave them with only the clothing on their backs. Take one of them as a prisoner; we only need one to continue in their journey." Bastian was watching the road intently, forcing his focus back to the reluctant soldiers near him.

Aramis grimaced in repugnance. On the way over, Porthos had glanced surreptitiously at him, trying to sound the depths of his thoughts and clearly asking with his eyes what they were going to do. That answer, he had realized, was frustratingly little.

There were two guards near him, each with a loaded pistol and dagger in their belts, and another three watching Porthos who were similarly armed.

They couldn't run without being caught again or killed outright, and Bastian had assured them both thoroughly that their weakened comrades were still at his mercy.

As they waited, the measured footsteps of a horse could be heard echoing on the trees.

Aramis was thinking that perhaps he and Porthos could manage to overpower their captors and was about to turn his head to signal to his friend when he heard a noise that made him freeze.

Although muffled, he would recognize the sound of a pistol being cocked anywhere. Slowly, he shifted his gaze and turned his head slightly. There was a man in a nearby tree, slightly behind them, with his pistol aimed squarely at the back of his head. A bead of cold sweat trickled down the musketeer's back.

There was another man peering out from behind a thick bush, armed with a musket, this one pointed at Porthos. As he continued to look around, he fancied that he could see at least two more shapes in the trees across the road, waiting for them to make the first move. Even if they could fight off Bastian and his thugs, they would never be able to outrun the bullets from the guns trained on them.

It was then that Aramis realized there was absolutely nothing they could do. Bastian saw the look of dawning horror on his face and smiled.

"Now do you see?" he asked.

Aramis nodded tightly, hating the man with everything in him. Porthos had looked over and saw the exchange, although he hadn't heard the words.

Bastian melted away into the tree line, joining the multitude of shadows pooled at the bottom of the brush without a sound.

Porthos shot his friend a look which clearly asked him when they were going to move. Aramis look at him helplessly, tilting his head up slightly. Porthos turned his eyes to the place where the soldier had motioned, and immediately saw the hidden ambush waiting for them. He fought the urge to swear and signaled to Aramis bleakly that he understood.

The carriage, a somewhat drab, faded thing pulled into sight. It was moving slowly, and Porthos and Aramis had no trouble jumping in front of it with a nudge from Bastian's pistol.

"Why have we stopped?" a clear, somewhat high voice sounded. A middle-aged man, obviously of nobility but with clear eyes and a strong demeanor, opened the door to his coach and was seized by the collar from a hand of iron.

Porthos pulled him roughly from the carriage, shoving him abruptly against the side while Aramis dragged his lackey out in a similar fashion. Porthos saw that the servant was only a boy, younger than d'Artagnan by at least a few years. He looked scared half to death but shouted fiercely at Aramis and fought with everything he had in the soldier's grip.

"There is a lockbox underneath the seat," the gentleman in Porthos' grasp said calmly, looking totally unafraid.

"Inside there are a few land titles and a small collection of jewels. Take them."

The calm dignity contrasted with the terrified look of his servant wrenched at the hearts of the soldiers. Aramis found himself wishing achingly that Athos and d'Artagnan were with them.

"It's not that simple." Porhos said finally, breaking the silence in a voice that conveyed his deep regret. The man's demeanor instantly changed, and he stiffened. His gaze missed nothing as it swept over the musketeer's faces, and he comprehended everything.

"I see. I will go with you, without struggle, on the honor of a gentleman. I only ask that you let my servant go."

"My lord, no," the boy said in a shocked tone, actually flushing with the indignation that he would be forced to abandon his master.

"Do as I say," the gentleman said to him, not unkindly. "It is my wish that you go back to the chateau. Tell my wife and children what has occurred here. Camille will see that you aren't left destitute; she's quite fond of you, my boy. And so am I," he said with the saddest smile Aramis had ever seen.

"Sir, please," the servant said desperately. His mouth was pushed into an unhappy trembling line, and there were tears standing in his eyes. "I want to stay with you."

The gentleman looked at him with an affection almost paternal and smiled again. "Not this time, my friend. Leave now, and you will be spared. I order you to live, for me."

The boy nodded mutely, face crumpling in despair and struggling to control the tears sliding down his tears uncontrollably.

This heartbreaking tableau of respect and understanding passed slowly through the eyes of Porthos' mind, frozen into his memory forever along with the knowledge that he'd caused this pain.

"This doesn't have to be violent," he said uselessly. "No one has to get hurt."

The boy turned a raw gaze onto the man, equal parts anger, sorrow and fear. Porthos' heart quailed in the face of so much raw pain.

His eyes burned with guilt, and he had to look away. Aramis glanced towards him helplessly in a bleak look of hurt. Suddenly, he felt his resolve turn sharply. Fighting and being killed here in the road would be preferable to this kind of torture. His expression changed, and the other musketeer caught it. Aramis' face turned to unhappy lines of assent; he understood perfectly what was passing through his brother's thoughts. They had no choice.

One of the thugs handed Porthos the strongbox, and the musketeer tightened his grip, ready to bring it down on his head. Aramis tensed next to him, hand closed around the handle of his knife.

Before they could move, a gunshot rang out through the stillness of the forest. It made them all jump with surprise and look around warily.

The gentleman fell to the ground without a sound, a small red hole appeared in his chest and the wound bled rapidly, staining his finely stitched clothing.

His servant let out a heart-rendering cry of shock and despair, and tried blindly to reach out to his master.

One of Bastian's brutes caught his arms and shoved him back roughly. The boy landed hard on the ground a few feet away. His expression was a mess of impotent fury and distress. Freely flowing tears tracked clean lines through the dust that had sullied his unblemished face.

"You said you would let him live!" he screamed at them. "You said you would let him live, you bastards!"

Aramis turned to face Bastian's cold stare, barely masking an all-consuming anger that seeped into his voice.

"Now we don't have to take him with us," the cruel man said simply, though his voice carried a terrifying note of fury.

The other guards shoved Porthos and Aramis towards the wood line again, pistols digging into their backs.

Porthos glanced back, wanting to tear his eyes away from the horrible scene but unable to do so. The young servant was on the ground in the middle of the road. He was cradling his master's cold body, sobbing aloud into his unmoving chest. The blood soaking slowly into the ground intermingled with fresh tears falling from the boy's eyes, surrounding them both.

Aramis' mouth worked and a tear ran from the corner of his own eye despite his best efforts to control himself.

Bastian marched them a hundred yards away, then chained them together with heavy restraints.

"If you ever try something like that again, I will kill both of you without hesitation," Bastian told them, his voice devoid of inflection or emotion. The statement was matter of fact. Aramis' skin crawled with revulsion.

They made their way back to the fortress without further word. Once they arrived, they were taken back into their cells. Athos' head turned towards the sound, as did d'Artagnan's; he had been waiting for their return. He watched out of the hole in his door as the musketeers were placed back in their cells. Aramis sank quietly in the corner of his cell. All his limbs trembled and he couldn't stop his mind from replaying the wordless grief of the boy.

"Are you alright?" Athos asked quietly, head heavy with the fatigue that had sunk into his very being.

D'Artagnan, still weak but no longer in immediate danger, was listening as he pulled the thin blanket closer around his lean frame.

Aramis' fingers curled tightly into the tangled locks of hair on his head, trembled.

Porthos sat down on the floor wordlessly. His mind was elsewhere, drawn into unhappy remembrances of his childhood in the Court of Miracles. It had been dark there, too. _Starfall_. A word from his past was dredged through the grim thoughts that swirled through his thoughts. A word used when a hovel had burnt down, when the only food supply was poisoned or stolen, when someone lost everything.

"Starfall," he whispered brokenly, thinking of the look on the boy's face as he wept over the death he had caused.

Athos' weary eyes closed for a moment, unable to even offer a word in response. There was nothing left to say.

Despite a few well-meaning attempts at conversation from d'Artagnan, nothing could induce Porthos or Aramis to speak. The grief was too new, too raw to discuss, and the blame threatened to crush them with every breath they took.

After many hours of staring at the cold, moldering walls, Porthos finally fell into a restless, fitful sleep where the anguished screams of the boy echoed through the halls of his nightmares.

* * *

A lone horseman approached the fortress under the cover of darkness. Bastian heard him approaching and went outside to meet him.

"The soldiers have split into two groups," the man told him. "One is led by Treville, they're still west of here. The other is heading this way, under Colville's instructions."

"When?" Bastian asked simply.

"Tomorrow afternoon, they planned to attack together. I've already dispatched the messenger sent to inform Treville. If they don't receive the word, they can't combine their strengths. The most you'll have to worry about is one convoy at a time," the man answered.

Bastian stepped towards him, digging into his pocket for a few gold coins.

"Good work," he said, passing the man five livres. The stranger bowed, then got back onto his horse and trotted away.

Only the moon bore witness to this dark business, and Bastian smiled inwardly and turned back through the door. He would be ready.

* * *

Unaware of what had transpired, Athos sat quietly leaned against the wall in the depths of the prison. The musketeer spent the night turning his idea in his mind patiently, examining it from all sides like a multi-faceted gem. Finally, he made up his mind. His heart ached already with the knowledge of what he had to do, but he knew there wasn't another choice. Making up his mind and summoning all his courage, he called softly for the guards.

The sun rose an age later, a cold and ineffective dawn against the chill in the air. A new day.


	6. Chapter 6

_**A/N:**_ Hello, everybody! I'm back! Chapter 6 is here! This is a lot of exclamation points! I am so, so sorry about the wait between this one and the last one. I hope everyone is enjoying it so far. The feedback on this story is amazing; truly you guys are the best. Thank you all.

This one is almost ready to be wrapped up nice and neat. Or maybe not... :)

So there's a bit more action here. Forewarning, I am **TAKING LIBERTIES** in this chapter. Slightly, but still. I looked online and I couldn't find backstories for certain characters, so I wrote them in here! I'm sort of happy with it, anyway.

Chapter 7 hasn't been Beta'd yet, and I'd really rather wait for that. Lord knows my writing needs it. So, I'm not exactly sure when it will be posted but fear not. It shouldn't be too long of a wait. Excessive badassery and fighting are in store.

Standard Disclaimer. I don't own anything here except the plot, a few OCs, and Bastian. But he's up for grabs cuz he's kind of a jerk.

Have a wonderful day, and a great rest of the week everybody!

Namaste.

* * *

_"Listen. No, don't listen to me. Listen. _

_Y__ou can find the others if you are brave. _

_They passed down all the roads long ago, and the Red Bull ran close behind them and covered their footprints."_

_-The Last Unicorn (1982)_

* * *

Treville quickly saddled his horse and began getting his necessary equipment together. To his left, Constance was doing the same with her mount. All around them, the hastily erected camp of the musketeers was being dismantled and they were preparing for another day.

It was cold in the pre-dawn chill and Constance could see her breath in the air.

"Where is the nearest fort?" she asked the captain quietly.

All the men were tired; they had been traveling at a forced march for nearly five days and the strain was beginning to wear on them all. Still, Treville had never said anything unkind to her and had responded to all her questions with equanimity and a grace that was quite extraordinary given the circumstances.

"About half a day's ride from here. We can check it, and then head back to Paris. In a few days, the other search party will report back as well, if they haven't run into trouble. Perhaps they've found the musketeers already," he added.

Constance's heart fluttered in her chest. They were so close now. And yet, she was terrified of what may be waiting for them.

"Begging your pardon, Madame," he said after a stilted pause. "What will your husband think of you? Getting involved with official musketeer business is bad enough for a civilian woman, but sleeping for several nights out in the forest with a group of men…"

Constance flushed slightly, but replied in a level tone, "He is gone for a few weeks, to the coast to bargain for fabric he says is coming from the coasts of China and India. With luck, he'll never find out about any of this."

Treville looked at the pretty young thing in front of him, touched by the notion that a loving heart so full of devotion should be trapped in a lonely existence of drudgery and sacrifice. Then he thought of all the trouble his musketeers regularly got entangled with and thought she should consider the banality of her life a gift.

He was ruminating on this when his first lieutenant came and told him the men were ready.

Swiftly, they rode on. The sun rose slowly, elongating their shadows to stretch before them on the path. Constance looked at the strong lines of her silhouette and prayed for strength in the following hours.

* * *

The young serving boy trudged along the forest trail blindly. He had walked all through the night and was completely exhausted. His feet were bare and cut badly. Now and then, he stumbled over a rock or tree root, sometimes falling only to pick himself up absently a few moments later. The boy's mind was wandering far away, replaying the moment when his master had gone quiet in his arms over and over.

Implacable ideas of revenge had formed through the long hours in the dark, and he cursed himself over and over for not dying alongside his master. _What will I tell Madame? _ he asked himself uselessly, and a wave of despair swept over him.

He had been crying off and on throughout the night; it seemed he had no more tears. Just stumbling weariness and a vague idea of which direction to go.

Finally, he could go no farther. He stopped moving, and his legs trembled with fatigue under him.

He blinked for a long moment, and suddenly a thin, long-fingered hand was in his field of view.

He raised his head and stared into the kind face of a stranger. He had dark hair and eyes, and a vaguely Spanish look about him, although the boy thought he must be mistaken because the man spoke French with a pure Parisian accent that would have made a native jealous.

"Are you alright, young master?" the stranger asked, in a tone that conveyed the deepest concern.

"Yes," he answered, looking at the man's fine clothing in awe.

"Where are you headed?" the stranger asked. "It's a bit dangerous to walk alone, especially through the forest."

"I'm going to Paris," the boy replied mechanically, eyes already lost in the miles before him yet.

The stranger clucked his tongue sympathetically.

"I'm afraid you're going the wrong way, my friend," he said gently.

The boy looked up, face suddenly animated in anguish.

"No, that cannot be!" he protested. "I've walked all through the night this direction, so I can't have gotten lost!"

"You've headed _away_ from Paris, towards Blois at the present," the man said, looking more closely at the boy.

The boy's face drained of all color as he realized how far off course he had actually gone. His legs gave out from under him, and the stranger jumped forward quickly and caught him.

He eased the boy to the ground and shrugged his coat off. Draping it around the boy's thin shoulders, he murmured reassurances to the young servant who looked like he was about to faint.

"Why were you walking all night?" he asked quietly, looking into the boy's tear-filled eyes.

The servant gulped and burst into a scalding storm of tears, helpless against his renewed grief. The man sat impassively as he watched the boy cry. Finally, the tears subsided, and he sat up straighter.

The man wordlessly offered him a waterskin, of which the boy took a long drink.

"Thank you, sir," he said after wiping his mouth.

"Are you in some kind of trouble, lad?" the stranger asked kindly, looking intently at the child in front of him.

"My master was killed on the road," the servant said, looking tearful again at the painful words. "I need to go to Paris, to find someone who can help me get justice."

The stranger couldn't stop one side of his mouth from curling up into an odd smile. Bastian had been right; there was nothing easier than convincing those who had already been wronged in the name of France. This serving boy would go back to the city and inform the family and probably anybody else who would listen. Alone, his word wouldn't have much credence, but traveling with a gentleman who had escorted him home…

The man listened to the boy's story with great interest. When he had finished, the man leaned a little closer.

"Perhaps I can help you," he said smoothly.

* * *

D'Artagnan was the first one awake, blinking owlishly through the darkness enveloping his cell. He stretched cautiously and was pleased to find that the pain in his shoulder had decreased considerably. He had to admit he felt much better after Bastian's ministrations the day before.

He sat quietly in his cell, trying to stop his mind from wandering towards the future or the past. Finally, he heard one of his companions stir from their sleep. He assumed it was Porthos, from the heavy breathing and the subsequent grunting as he shifted upright.

"D'Artagnan?" Porthos asked thickly, remembering that his friend had been literally dragged semi-conscious from the room not twenty-four hours previously.

"I'm here," the Gascon returned quickly, attempting to soothe the musketeer.

"You alright?" Porthos asked, keeping his voice low for the other soldier's benefit.

"Yes," d'Artagnan answered, voice sounding somewhat stronger. "Bastian rebound my shoulder and gave me something to help the infection. Fever's gone down."

"Bastard is the one who shot you in the first place," Porthos muttered, although he was grateful that the small mercy had been shown to his friend.

"Are _you_ alright?" d'Artagnan asked him warily. "When you and Aramis got back, I didn't know what was going on. Both of you were so….quiet."

Porthos dropped his gaze to the stone floor, trying not to remember the agonized look on the young boy's face as they had walked away.

Aramis woke up with a small start, jerked from an uncomfortable restless sleep, although he stayed silent.

"Bastian made us raid a nobleman and his carriage to get some jewels and land titles," Porthos began haltingly.

"He said we would take the man prisoner, and Aramis and I decided to try and escape. He shot the gentleman and left his servant alive. He was a boy, really," he continued, voice choking with emotion. "Younger than you."

"Good lord," d'Artagnan breathed out, lost for words.

"It doesn't matter now," Porthos said quietly, looking at the floor.

"I've been thinking about this for most of the night," Aramis began, also casting his gaze downwards.

"I don't know what's going to happen to us, but I know that I'll never let my honor be lost like that again. If that means dying rather than going on another raid, watching innocent men be murdered because of us—" his voice broke, and he cleared his throat before continuing.

"That boy's life is forever changed. He's going to go back to his home or to Paris, never able to think of anything except the fact that his master was killed by a group of dishonorable French cutthroats while the King did nothing in his defense."

He slumped against the wall defeatedly, putting a hand up to his aching head.

"Aramis, are you-?" Porthos began apprehensively.

The handsome musketeer squeezed his eyes shut against the onslaught of tears threatening to flood his weary eyes but managed to keep his voice steady and normal-sounding.

"I'm fine, Porthos. I'm just a little tired."

They sat in silence for a few moments, contemplating their predicaments. D'Artagnan tried not to think of Constance.

"Athos, you're bein' awfully quiet," Porthos remarked, fully expecting a sarcastic reply.

Only silence answered him.

"Athos? Are you awake?" Aramis asked, a tendril of unease creeping into his mind.

Still nothing.

Porthos got up and hurried to the door of his cell. He attempted to peer out the slot in the door and look into the former comte's room.

He froze, and his face drained of all color.

"He's gone," Porthos said, unable to keep a tremor out of his voice. "His cell is empty."

"No," Aramis breathed out, heart hammering with sudden, crushing panic.

"Athos!" d'Artagnan tried to yell, voice still too weak to carry well

The others sat in stunned silence, hoping grimly that their friend wasn't already gone. Then they took up the cry as well.

* * *

Athos closed his eyes momentarily as if to summon all his patience and strength. When he opened them again, his gaze was clear and sharp. He was standing in the middle of the torture chamber at the top of the stairs, with his hands shackled before him.

"I'm rather surprised you asked to speak with me," Bastian told him, moving so that he stood across from the musketeer.

"I believe we have things to discuss that could be mutually beneficial," Athos replied in a hoarse voice, albeit calmly.

Dark smudges bruised the skin under his eyes, and his hands trembled minutely from strain and too many nights of little sleep. His skin was pale and seemed to pull sharply over his bones, which accentuated the numerous gashes he had received.

Bastian fancied he could see the delicate globe of Athos' skull through the pale, taut skin of his forehead.

Still, the musketeer's voice was strong and the customary nobility of his movements and demeanor never abandoned him.

"Please, continue." The tormentor gestured towards two chairs near the edge of the room, but Athos refused by a slight inclination of the head.

"I can guess the nature of the mission you took my friends out to yesterday," he began impassively. "I want to prevent such… distasteful complications in the future."

"And how do you propose this be accomplished?" Bastian inquired.

"Let my friends go," Athos said simply. "I will stay in their stead, and act as your assistant in all matters."

"I already have the four of you under my control," Bastian remarked. "Why would I willingly relinquish that?"

Athos smiled slightly and shook his head slowly.

"Because we are His Majesty's musketeers. We will never stop resisting you. We will never stop finding ways to sabotage the missions you assign to us." He paused, gauging his tormentor's reactions.

"And we will escape."

Bastian pulled his features into a look of dry cynicism and haughty disdain, although he inwardly felt disquieted by the absolute certainty in the soldier's voice.

"If you agree to let the others go, I will remain at your side and pledge my undying fealty to you and your cause."

"What reassurance do I have that you will not try to run the moment your comrades are free of my control? Or that they will not come back with an army to save you?" Bastian asked snidely.

"Our bond is not as strong as it once was," Athos answered with a bitter tone. "You've seen to that, you know it to be true. And I give you my word as a gentleman."

It was at this moment that the shouting of the musketeers from below could be heard, echoing faintly through the wooden floorboards. Athos' expression didn't change, save for a little tightening around his eyes. Bastian watched him intently.

"You have courage, I'll give you that," Bastian finally said. "However, I know you would attempt to run or get yourself killed the moment we went out on a raid. Do you expect me to believe that a week in a prison is enough to dissolve a brotherhood of years?"

His face twisted into an expression of pity and dry amusement. "Really, Athos."

He walked with a quiet measured step around the exhausted soldier, who refused to turn his head to look at him.

"Besides, I already have what I want," he continued.

"I don't understand," Athos answered, fighting to keep his voice level.

"I suppose you wouldn't," Bastian said with a small sigh. "But you will."

The flesh on the back of Athos' neck crawled at the dark tone in his voice.

He was unprepared for the blow that landed on the back of his head. The musketeer didn't pass out, but the world went a watery gray. He fell to his knees and dimly felt a few guards come up behind him and drag him out of the room.

His head lolled against his chest, and he wavered somewhere between unconsciousness and awareness. Athos knew he was being jostled around rather roughly, but it was hard to think about anything except the tight circle of hate and injustice burning in his mind.

The guards marched him down back down the stairs and held him between them. One of them moved to Porthos' cell and yanked the door open.

"Get up," he said harshly. Another guard pulled out his pistol and pointed it at Athos' limp frame. Porthos got up without a word and began walking down the corridor without a struggle.

D'Artagnan watched them go and kicked the door in frustration, letting out a yell.

Athos' eyes blinked sluggishly open then closed again. It seemed like too much effort to keep them open. His hazy thoughts drifted back to his brothers, who were waiting for him. Damn them, anyway. If they weren't so dependent on each other, perhaps they wouldn't have gotten into this mess.

He never even felt his impact against the floor as the guards placed him back inside his cell, and he was oblivious to the calls of the other musketeers for a good stretch of time. Athos floated alone in a gray world, half-wishing he wouldn't wake up.

* * *

Antoine slid off his horse smoothly onto the ground, ignoring the stiffness he had from being in the saddle for so long.

Beside him, a few musketeers did the same, cursing softly and stretching out their legs. The leader of the search party came up and stretched. The pops and cracks of his back were audible, and he sighed in relief.

"We should arrive at the fort in another three hours or so," Henri told the stable hand.

Antoine turned to him, eyes flashing in surprise.

"So soon?" he asked.

"Yes. We'll wait until Treville's party joins us here, then move forward. If the fortress is still standing, we'll find it," he added, tone suddenly flattened by doubt.

Antoine's jaw clenched. "We've come too far to _not_ find it. It'll be there, and so will the musketeers."

The leader's face settled into sympathetic lines of unhappiness.

"You've got to be prepared for…for whatever we might find in there, lad," he said seriously.

Antoine's gaze turned steely, but he nodded. "I'm ready."

Most of the soldiers stretched out on the ground to wait for the other company of musketeers. They had been riding at punishing speeds for several days now, with little hope and even less sleep. Although it was nearly midafternoon, many were asleep the moment they laid down on the soft pine needles of the forest floor.

Antoine's body screamed for sleep, but he refused to lie down.

"You should get some rest," Henri intoned softly, coming up beside him. "We may not get another chance until the siege of the fortress is over."

"I want to be ready when the Captain meets us," Antoine said, bowing respectfully but steadfastly refusing to sleep.

The squad leader rolled his eyes but smiled in spite of himself. "Wake me when the cavalry arrives," he said in a slightly ironical tone. Henri threw himself onto the grass and was asleep almost instantly.

Antoine paced around, gathering his thoughts and waiting. After two hours of impatiently waiting, he got up to see if he could spot the approaching party.

Moving into the brush, he had his eyes fixed through the trees when he tripped on something and landed on his elbow hard.

He scrambled back to his feet and gasped in horror as he caught sight of what had tripped him.

The messenger that Henri had sent was dead. His body was twisted and his limbs were outstretched haphazardly.

Flies buzzed around the corpse, crawled into the bloody hole in his chest left by a bullet, and one landed on his face. The boy's eyes were glazed and stared sightlessly at the sky.

Heart hammering, Antoine ran back to the camp.

"Henri," he said urgently, shaking the leader awake. "The messenger we sent is dead. I found him in the forest."

"Show me," he said sharply, jumping to his feet. Antoine roused the rest of the soldiers, and they filed into the brush.

After looking at the corpse of the unfortunate courier, they headed back to the clearing.

"That messenger obviously never reached Treville," Henri said heavily when they were all assembled. "Which means we're on our own. There are no reinforcements coming back, no reason for the company to meet here at all."

"We need to go ahead with the siege," Antoine said urgently, fear showing in his eyes. "Today will have been the sixth day they've been missing. If we waste any more time, it may be too late for them."

Henri was silent, and Antoine saw the anguish of a man caught between two impossibilities and having to choose.

"We're probably walking into a trap," he finally said, eyes straying inadvertently back towards the brush where the body lay.

"We don't have a choice!" Antoine snapped back. The dark circles under his eyes stood out in stark contrast with his pale skin, and he seemed unsettled by the discovery of the body.

"Take it easy," another musketeer stepped forward, laying a restraining hand on the young stable hand's shoulder.

"No, he's right," Henri said miserably. "We _don't_ have a choice. We should be there by nightfall, but I don't think we should waste any more time. Pack it up, men. This is the final stretch."

The soldiers packed up and remounted. They rode on towards the bastion in silence. The setting sun gave way to twilight. Just as the first stars were starting to appear, the soldiers caught sight of the structure in the distance.

Antoine pulled his horse up short, his heart hammered in his chest. He looked towards the other soldiers who looked similarly disquieted.

The fortress stood alone and aloof in a clearing in the forest, the dark pillars of crumbling stone rose threateningly into the flaming sky. It seemed menacing, like some sly creature lurking in the dark in the hopes of catching unsuspecting prey.

Finally, one of the musketeers cleared his throat.

"Well, come on, then," he said brusquely. "God hates a coward."

They all rode towards the ancient fortress, trying not to think about what disturbing secrets the decrepit edifice might be concealing.

* * *

"Tell me about your time in the Court," Bastian said.

"Why?" Porthos asked, baffled as to why the question would come up. He was once again chained to the wall in the room at the top of the stairs. Any more time here, and he'd memorize the number of planks that made up the floor.

"Because I'm telling you to," his tormentor replied, voice frosty and gaze colder.

"What made you choose to become a musketeer? Most of the people I know that are associated with that dung heap are like vermin; they prefer to scuttle in darkness and refuse for the entirety of their lives. Why are you different?"

"Decided I didn't want to be a cockroach like some," Porthos said.

Bastian's face twisted into a mixture of amusement and disgust, before dropping again.

"Don't be smart. It doesn't suit you. Tell me, or I'll go downstairs and ask Athos again. He seemed eager to negotiate this morning," Bastian said snidely.

The musketeer bristled.

"Athos would never negotiate with filth like you," Porthos answered after a pause. Doubt suddenly swirled in his mind.

"You don't think so?" Bastian asked quietly, a sadistic gleam coming into his eyes. "Tell me why you chose to be a musketeer."

"Go to hell," Porthos shot back.

Bastian turned to him, with a smile on his face and a knife in his hand.

"You had your chance."

* * *

D'Artagnan and Aramis didn't fight when the guards came to take them upstairs. Athos had regained consciousness but moved slowly and with difficulty.

They were led to the room. Aramis immediately saw the state of Porthos and winced in sympathy.

The large musketeer looked terrible. His face was a mess of gashes and bruises. His nose was slightly crooked and swollen, very probably broken. He spit blood to one side and winced as his teeth grazed the cut on his lip. Blood stained the front of his shirt and dripped onto the floor. Aramis also suspected bruised or broken ribs by the way he was breathing, and his right hand was a bloody pulp of broken bones and cuts.

"We're going to play a little truth-telling game," Bastian said brightly, moving to the center of the room, so he could watch all the musketeers. "You remember games like this as children? You must tell the truth, or else."

His voice dropped a little, accentuating the last words in a way that would have been comical in another circumstance.

"In my version, 'or else' is just a tad more pressing than a silly dare or public humiliation," he finished.

One of his brutish guards came forward and stepped menacingly behind where d'Artagnan and Aramis knelt. He was so close the Gascon could smell the heady mixture of sweat and unwashed flesh. His head reeled with the foul stench, and he fought the urge to gag.

"Why did you choose to become a musketeer?" Bastian asked Porthos menacingly. "I won't ask nicely again. Next time something gets broken. And take care that you tell the truth; I know you were lying to me the last time you spoke about your childhood, at least partially."

Porthos looked up at him through a bright glare of hate, head bowed and blood still flowing unabated from his nose.

"A few days after my mother died, I was standing in a dark alleyway," he started haltingly, voice hard and flat in an unfeeling tone that Aramis immediately loathed.

"It was midwinter. I can't have been more than five or six years old. I was crying because I was hungry and my fingers were blue from the cold. I cried until someone came and told me to shut up, then beat me until I did."

He stopped, mind flooded with countless memories of drudging days and endless nights punctuated by bright moments of fear and pain. Athos closed his eyes, as if in pain at hearing his friend's confessions. Aramis grimaced and looked anywhere except his friend's blank face. D'Artagnan was staring at Porthos with wide eyes, never having heard much about his past.

"I never cried again in the Court. A few weeks later, I saw the same thing happen to a girl who was younger than me. I picked her up and ran away as fast as I could. She was so young; she could barely speak. For the next couple of years, I looked after her as best I could. Making sure she had food, making sure she had somewhere to sleep."

She tried to tell me her name, but she couldn't pronounce it correctly and I never could figure it out. The best guess I had was 'Flea', so that's what she was called."

The three other soldiers started with the shock of recognition at hearing this name.

"She's still called that; she says she doesn't remember a time before I was there," Porthos said, showing no emotion as he rattled off the story. He could have been dictating a list of items to purchase at the market.

"There were a few other young'uns that I looked after. None of them had anything, and almost all of us were orphans or wished we were. I liked the feeling when I knew they all depended on me, it was almost like power in a way. Knowing that they trusted me to do the right thing and that I was important enough to miss if I were gone."

Porthos' voice broke, remembering all the things he had done and allowed to be done to him, all to survive.

"Through all that, you still chose the noble path?" Bastian asked incredulously. "Why?"

"Because it was the right thing to do," Porthos answered tiredly. "Because I didn't want to end up dying nameless in a filthy gutter. I remember my mother, always trying to smile and be brave for me. She told me that someday, we'd be out of the Court. She told me stories about beautiful gardens, trees laden with ripe fruits. Streams that ran with clean water, and estates of luxury where hummingbirds could learn to sing."

It was like a dam inside Porthos had been loosened. All the words and thoughts that had remained unspoken for years now came pouring out in an uncontrollable flood.

"She told me there was more to life than misery and darkness. And I've never forgotten it."

Porthos looked up with an angry, though proud air. "I've been through worse than a little spell in prison, and so have they," he said, gesturing to the other musketeers.

"We'll get out of here. You can be sure of that," he added, an indescribable look of hatred settled on his features and twisted them into something hard and almost unrecognizable. "And when we do, the first thing I'm going to do is kill you."

Bastian's face contorted into a twisted, grinning leer that made Aramis flinch away reflexively.

"Maybe," he agreed. "You'll break free one day and you'll kill me. But you'll never forget that I held you prisoner. You'll never forget everything I've done to you, everything I forced you to endure. And when Spain wins the war and conquers this hateful country, my name will ring through history as one of the celebrated few that helped usher in peace."

"You're mine. And even if I die, you'll still be mine. You'll never forget," he repeated, eyes blazing with a nasty glint of animal cunning.

Athos squeezed his eyes shut, fighting the urge to scrub a hand across his dry face.

It was at that moment that they all heard it, faint but unmistakable. The sound of horse hooves, thundering across the ground towards the fort. The stones, although crumbling and badly in need of repair, carried the sound clearly through the corridors; the air rattled and echoed as if shaking ghosts free.


	7. Chapter 7

_**A/N:**_ Hi everyone! Well, dang. We're almost done with this one! So. A few quick things. I feel like this chapter needs a slight warning for the violence. The fight scene isn't necessarily over-the-top graphic, but it's still pretty brutal.

I feel like people are either really going to love this chapter or really hate it. Any type of feedback is great, even if you didn't like it much, so don't be afraid to say what you really thought about it.

The next (and final!) chapter is written but definitely needs to be revised and looked over again, so don't expect it for a few more days.

HUGE thanks to everyone who is reading this one. I really, really hope you're liking it so far. The reviews are beyond awesome, and it's amazing to see your take on the story. Someone mentioned something about the awesome plot twists in one of the reviews, and that really got me thinking about what I could do for the ending. I hope I've done alright, but we'll see.

Disclaimer: Don't own, don't sue.

Namaste :)

* * *

At the noise, Aramis opened his eyes and looked at his friends with a mixture of disbelief and hope.

Bastian hid his reaction well, although inwardly, he realized the moment had finally come.

"Back down to your cells," he said, looking at the door and gesturing at them with a gun he pulled from his belt. "Now."

The guards came forward and grabbed the musketeers from behind. They were hoisted roughly up, and then marched back down the stairs.

Bastian waited until they were downstairs before going over to the table. He picked up two pistols and checked to see that they were loaded.

He tucked them into his belt, along with several knives, and hurried to a different room which was void of all furniture save for a narrow, mullioned window. The ancient glass was broken in several places. Peering out, he met the sight with the calm gaze of a man who has courted death for many years.

In the gathering darkness, he spied about twenty horses that had appeared from the wood line surrounding the fortress. They all rode swiftly, and the multitude of hooves tramping the ground created a sound like distant thunder.

Bastian's sharp eyes turned to the riders and he recognized the light cloak of the King's musketeers on almost every horseman.

He moved away from the window and strode from the chamber, thinking of the things he would need for the coming battle.

Running downstairs, he made his way to the entrance of the prison. He extinguished all the torches, and the massive entry room was plunged into darkness. He moved to the door, heedless of the encroaching black, and threw it open.

Silvery light from the softly winking stars leaked into the room from the open doorway. Bastian smiled to himself and went towards the back of the room to wait, moving like a cat in the darkness.

* * *

On the long walk through the corridor back to their cells, Porthos, who was leading the group, cleared his throat. Unsurprising, considering the amount of grime and dust in the air. Still, the musketeers looked at him, and he shot them a look that they recognized immediately from countless missions. _Be_ _ready_.

They took a few more strides until they were a sufficient distance from the landing and stairwell. Porthos shook out his hands lightly, making the manacles and chains rattle.

The others understood the signal, and all four soldiers immediately burst into a flurry of energy. D'Artagnan spun, quick as a wild dog, hit the brute behind him squarely in the nose with a heave of the manacles still weighing down on his hands.

The guard dropped to his knees with a pained grunt, eyes watering with agony and blood spilling down his face. The young musketeer pulled his fist back again and hit the thug in the temple, watching his eyes roll back into his head and collapse to the ground.

Aramis had spun around and somehow gotten the chains wrapped around his adversary's neck. He also buckled slowly to the ground, face turning a mottled purple from lack of oxygen. Aramis released him, but the thug was already unconscious.

Porthos had simply brought down his large fist on top of his guard's head as hard as he could. The man had dropped to the ground without a sound, perhaps already dead. He rummaged through the man's pockets, wincing as he jostled his broken right hand, and took out a bundle of flint and steel. None of the men were carrying weapons.

Athos alone was struggling with his opponent, hands scrambling to fight against the powerful blows from the man's ox-like strength. Aramis and d'Artagnan sprang onto the man, taking him to the ground and dispatching him with a sharp blow to the temple.

Porthos steadied Athos' shaking figure as the others straightened up. They all paused to catch their breath and looked at each other grimly in the dim light.

"We need to leave," Aramis finally said, affirming what they were all thinking. They headed back down the corridor, according to where Porthos led them. Bastian had blindfolded them when they had left the fortress for the disastrous mission, but Aramis had counted the steps.

Aramis and Porthos led the small group and talked quietly to concur on the way out. D'Artagnan followed, with Athos leaning heavily on his arm.

They took a left turn down the seemingly endless stone corridor, and Aramis felt a cold draft of air.

"There was another turn somewhere," he murmured, frowning as he peered around him.

"There," Athos said weakly, gesturing to an unlit passageway to their right.

They advanced and were plunged into near-complete darkness. D'Artagnan was struck with the sudden, irrational fear of wandering alone in the labyrinthian tunnels.

They moved as quickly as they could, trying to be quiet lest Bastian hear them. In the darkness, every sound seemed amplified.

Each step was an earthquake; each panted breath was a massive gust of wind that threatened to give away their position.

Porthos was leading, when he heard a scuffling sound from somewhere off to his right. He stopped, and the others followed suit.

They all listened in the darkness, huddled close and straining to hear anything.

A piece of stone fell from the crumbling walls and echoed sharply on the floor, from behind them. They all spun, peering in vain through the blackness surrounding them all.

D'Artagnan breathed out, willing his heart to quiet. Suddenly, he sensed a shape come out of the darkness beside him.

A large pair of hands closed around his throat in an iron grip, effectively choking him before he could even utter a cry.

He instinctively tried to pull himself away and the strong hands tightened further.

He gurgled, lungs screaming with lack of air and struck out at where the assailant's head should have been.

His weakening blows struck only air, and he sank to his knees, head spinning. All at once, the horrible grip loosened, and he sucked in air desperately.

Porthos stood over the prone attacker, the manacles around his wrists rattling as he shook out his smarting fist. He had knocked out the man with one punch, almost a miracle in the pitch-black surroundings.

Athos, who seemed a little recovered, slowly stepped forward until he could hear d'Artagnan's harsh panting in front of him.

"Are you alright?" he asked, and cautiously put his hands on the man's arm.

"Yes," the Gascon rasped out painfully between gasps for air.

Athos' mouth twitched in a grimace of sympathy and helped pull the young man upright once more.

"Who is it?" Aramis asked, creeping forward cautiously.

"I think we got all of the guards," Porthos said, trying to remember each one they had taken out.

"Wait, you don't think-," d'Artagnan said painfully in a hoarse voice.

Porthos passed the flint and steel to Aramis, who struck them a few times. In the brief flash of the sparks, they all recognized their assailant with a sharp intake of breath.

It was Jacques, the last bandit from Dulaurier's original gang that had attacked Constance and d'Artagnan on the cliff so long ago.

Blood was rushing out of his head in a steady stream, having impacted with the floor when he fell.

"Bastian could be down here already," Athos intoned, listening anxiously to catch the smallest sound.

D'Artagnan looked at the injured man for a long moment, and Athos could almost feel the old hatred seething in the air.

"Let's go," the Gascon said coldly, stepping over the man's prone body.

The others followed after a moment's hesitation.

"The exit should be just ahead, to the right," Porthos called softly over his shoulder. They walked on.

* * *

Antoine pulled his reins up, bringing his horse to an abrupt stop. Scarcely waiting until he had stopped moving, he sprang from the saddle with the remarkable agility of a practiced horseman.

Henri came up beside him, dismounting with similar alacrity. "All right, men," the leader said, addressing all the musketeers.

"You know what to do. Our men are in there, and it's our duty to bring them home. You lot," he said, addressing half of the soldiers, "go in first. The rest of you, follow at a distance. I don't want any of these bastards slipping past us by mistake."

"Sir, request permission to take point," Antoine said, dismayed that he had been placed in the latter group.

"Denied, soldier," Henri said briskly, while the others turned to their assignment. The sound of pistols being loaded and primed filled the air.

"Henri, please," Antoine said in a low, desperate tone, grabbing his leader's arm and pulling him closer so they could talk without the rest of the group hearing them.

"Antoine, you're not even a proper musketeer yet," Henri said, tone half sympathetic and half commanding. "What do you think Treville would say if he knew that I allowed you to take point on a mission like this without a proper commission?"

"There have been exceptions to that rule before," Antoine said stubbornly, feeling his temper rise.

"Not in situations like this! We don't have time to argue!" Henri snapped back, knowing that every second jeopardized their chances of recovering the Inseparables alive.

Antoine stormed away furiously to join the phalanx of soldiers that made up the vanguard of the expedition.

Henri sighed, then looked to the ancient door, which was gaping wide like a monstrous set of jaws held open to attract prey.

_Into the belly of the beast_, he thought, and led the way.

* * *

Finally, after an eternity, the Inseparables reached the door. Aramis swung it open and stepped through. The others followed and stepped into a large atrium.

It was filthy and in obvious disrepair; the rafters from the ceiling were splintered and covered in cobwebs. Some were broken, and the ruins of stone pillars littered the floor here and there. However, it seemed to be the entrance to the entire prison. The meager starlight flooding in weakly seemed to the musketeers the light of a thousand suns after being away from the sun for so long. D'Artagnan could have wept with relief in that instant if he weren't so tired.

Porthos was nodding, as he took in his surroundings through the nightmarishly twilight surroundings. "That's our way out," he said, nodding to the giant wooden structure flung open across the wide floor of the great room.

They began making their way across the floor. D'Artagnan's legs were shaking with fatigue and pain; he felt light-headed and dazed after the attack in the corridor. Athos wasn't faring much better. His pale face was visible even in the dim light and Aramis thought with dismay that he had seen corpses with better color.

The dried blood on Porthos' face was congealed into large areas, some of which were still glistening freshly red. His movements were jerky, lacking his usual coordination, and he looked almost dead on his feet.

Aramis reached up to scrub a hand nervously through his hair and had to stop when his fingers met angry tangles. He knew he looked just as bad as the others and was inwardly grateful that he couldn't see himself.

Slowly, painfully slowly, they began crossing the cracked stone floors of the great hall.

Porthos heard a scuttling noise behind them, near where the shadows pooled the darkest in the corner. He whirled as quickly as he could manage, and barely managed to see a stray piece of stone tumble to the floor and bounce dully.

From behind a cracked pillar, Bastian crouched low to the ground in an eerie display of dexterity. His pupils expanded, absorbing every possible particle of light and showed him with an almost inhuman clarity the four men limping towards their escape.

He noted that no guards were with them, and his sharp hearing couldn't detect any sign of them approaching. He was on his own, once again. Bastian's lips curled back from his sharp teeth, more reminiscent of a wolf baring his fangs than of a human smile.

Moving again, he flowed effortlessly with the shadows across the floor. The musketeers stood in a circle in the center of the room, back to back. D'Artagnan peered desperately into the gloom, trying to discern their tormentor's shape from the darkness to no avail.

Bastian was now situated silently behind a different pillar, almost parallel to the one he had left, giving him a different view of the circle in front of him. Athos was now the closest, near enough for Bastian to reach forward and touch him, with two steps.

The musketeer looked sharply into the space near him, and almost leaped out of his skin when he caught sight of two shining orbs staring at him from the darkest recesses of the room. They blinked once, and then disappeared again, accompanied by another small shifting of stone.

Bastian slowly climbed up a crumbling pile of stones, creeping forwards silently. The obscuring darkness rendered him virtually invisible. Despite the tiny amount of light present, he could see everything in the room clearly. The footsteps of the approaching soldiers rang over the empty hall, growing closer with each passing second.

Ever so slowly, Bastian coiled himself up, like a cobra ready to strike. Every muscle in his body sang with tension, and he waited for just the right moment.

* * *

The group of musketeers approached the door, getting into formation. The vanguard waited anxiously, ducked behind some trees. Antoine felt his anxiety crank up a notch as he saw Henri motion towards another soldier to take the opposite side of the doorway.

Unable to bear it any longer, he made to break away from his vantage point. Another musketeer next to him grabbed his shoulder.

"Where are you going?" he whispered harshly.

"To help them," Antoine hissed back furiously, attempting to shrug off the hand.

"Henri said to stay here," the other soldier answered, pulling him harder.

"I need to go," Antoine said, in a tone that brooked no argument. "Lightning never strikes the valley."

Something about this statement snagged in the back of the other soldier's thoughts.

"Isn't that what the old man said?" he asked. "What does it mean?"

Antoine gave him a tragic look of complete determination, and the saddest smile the man had ever seen.

"It means nothing was ever accomplished by just sitting around. For years, I've been at my lowest place, my valley. Keeping my head down and staying safe. I can't anymore," he said softly. Before the other soldier could protest, Antoine tore himself away and ran swiftly towards the group of soldiers now crossing the threshold.

The others in the vanguard watched in dismay as the musketeers spilled inside and vanished in the gloom, with Antoine heading directly into harm's way.

* * *

The footsteps of the rescue party startled the Inseparables. Soldiers entered the room, each trying to cover every inch of the room with their aimed pistols. Henri's eyes immediately found the missing soldiers. They were still huddled near the center, looking at their rescuers with a numb kind of disbelief.

While the soldiers were momentarily disoriented, the squad leader took stock of the room and noted all the deep cracks running through the ancient stone floor and the numerous piles of rubble.

With a sinking heart, he realized the pitiful light streaming through the door wasn't enough to illuminate the entirety of the room; many areas were still obscured entirely by darkness.

The musketeers moved in a tense semi-circle, moving towards the four prisoners. The vanguard filed in behind them, completing the formation.

Antoine held his pistol in front of him with a steady gaze, although his heart beat so rapidly in his chest that it hurt.

Bastian crept silently through the room, until he had circled around the encompassing party of rescuing soldiers.

One of them heard a scuttle to his left and turned to face the noise. Before he could fire a shot, a knife embedded itself in the soldier's throat. He went down with a painful gurgle, and the other musketeers around him spun towards the threat. A few shots went off, and the grinning face of the criminal glowed eerily in the brief flashes of pistol fire, creating the illusion of moving at incredible speed.

Another flash went off, this time of Bastian's pistol, and another soldier slumped dead to the floor. The room rang with the sound of a sword being pulled, and two more musketeers fell beside their dead comrades.

Henri stood his ground, standing protectively in front of the Inseparables. He focused his breathing and listened to the sounds of panic around him.

Suddenly, the hair on the back of his neck prickled. He spun with his sword raised and barely managed to parry a blow that would have cleaved his head in two.

He could just barely see the shine of Bastian's eyes glimmering through the darkness, and they began dueling. Henri was relying on instinct alone to save him, honed over long hours of patient practice and muscle memory.

He couldn't see anything, but his sword seemed to move on its own, reacting to save him at the last possible second. Even so, he felt his enemy's sword turn and skitter sideways off his own blade, sliding across his chest and opening a deep gash.

Henri took an involuntary breath of surprise at the pain and would have been dead for his hesitation if something hadn't knocked into his adversary.

A warm body slammed into Bastian's right side, sending them both sprawling to the floor. It was Antoine.

Bastian caught the hand that was raised to thrust a dagger into his chest and twisted, breaking the wrist in one smooth, brutal motion.

The stable hand let out a cry of pain and was rewarded with a staggering punch to the face. Blood instantly flowed from his now broken nose. His hands scrabbled uselessly for his pistol, which had been knocked from his grip. Bastian leaped up over the young cadet and pulled out his own dagger. Antoine brought his hand up instinctively to protect himself, and the blade was buried in his forearm.

He screamed again and Bastian pulled the knife out with a grisly yank, prepared to deal him a fatal second blow. Finally, Antoine's other hand brushed the smooth handle of his gun in the darkness. Bringing it up, he shot the cruel jailer in the stomach just as the knife descended over his body.

Bastian flinched at the sudden pain, but didn't utter a sound. Antoine took the advantage and kicked hard, bucking his hips. The unsuspecting jailer flew off and landed with a soft thump a few feet away.

The stable hand scrambled away, and Henri then reached in the darkness and caught hold of him in an iron grip, helping him stand unsteadily.

Bastian retreated to the corners of the room, feeling warm blood seep through the fingers pressed tightly to his midsection.

The musketeers regrouped, and all stepped in front of the Inseparables, slowly backing them up towards the open door now at their backs.

Porthos panted harshly in the darkness, feeling his frayed nerves stretch to their breaking point. Waiting helpless in the dark for an enemy to strike was never desirable; with freedom so close, it was nigh unbearable. Just when he thought he would start screaming, he caught a glimpse of the same eye-shine Athos had seen.

With a cry that sounded like it was torn from the throat of a wild animal, Bastian launched himself towards the crowd of unsuspecting soldiers.

The criminal leader buried his last knife in the chest of one musketeer, shot another, and ducked a punch from a third. His reaching hands groped the air in front of him and caught hold of another unfortunate soldier, where his strong thumbs jammed mercilessly into eye sockets and pushed until the soft, jelly-like tissue caved under his fingers. A scream borne of bright pain rent the air and ended abruptly with a horrific crunch when Bastian snapped the man's neck.

In the commotion, more shots were fired and blows aimed. However, Bastian seemed to have the luck of the devil himself and slipped past their defenses.

His silhouette filled the doorway and his shadow was cast upon the floor for an instant. Bastian fled into the star-filled night. His steps pounded the ground and he left a trail of blackish blood behind him.

The majority of the musketeers left standing rushed after him into the forest, tracking his blood with loud shouts of anger and triumph.

The Inseparables were still standing in the middle of the room, too shocked to move or say anything.

Henri was the first to move. He gently helped Antoine lean against a broken pillar, who promptly slid down it to the floor, breathing harshly in pain. Kneeling down, he took off the scarf he habitually wore and tied it tightly around the stab wound in his arm to stop the bleeding. The cadet hissed in pain but didn't pull away.

"Are you four alright?" Henri asked, moving to where the musketeers stood on trembling legs.

"No," Athos answered for the others, the shock in his eyes mirrored on the faces of the others.

* * *

Later, they wouldn't remember much about that hellish night. Eventually, the grisly trail of blood was lost in the darkness of the forest. Bastian slipped off to join the legion of shadows the woods harbored, and the musketeers had to concede defeat. Henri eventually called back the survivors, and they helped support the wounded Inseparables out of the prison and into the woods.

Athos would later recall motion and then remembering the stars. The former comte opened his eyes wide and stared into the heavens as if it were his first time. He drank in the beauty of the sky, the patterns of the swirling galaxies. The brightness of the moon made him flinch and hurt his eyes after so long in the dark.

The others followed suit, gazing with wonder at the sky. Henri had them carefully supported and walked a safe distance to set up camp for the night. He set a few musketeers to the task of getting the cruel manacles off the soldiers, which was shortly accomplished.

After they were taken care of, he tended to the other wounded musketeers and pulled the bodies out of the fortress. He knew they couldn't be brought back to Paris, but the idea of leaving them in the abandoned fortress was unbearable. They lay still and cold, shrouded in silvery moonlight.

Henri's limbs now ached with weariness, and the wound on his chest burned with every breath. Nevertheless, he stood in front of the men that had followed him to their deaths. There were seven in all, and the leader felt grief settle itself heavily on his shoulders. Suddenly, one of the soldiers came up to him and said that they needed medical supplies.

Many more injuries were present in the group of soldiers, although the most pressing were those of the Inseparables and Antoine.

Any blankets and bedrolls that could be spared were taken and given to the four soldiers, who seemed to be in shock. They would eat the food given to them but wouldn't speak. They huddled together closely in a small group in the center of the camp, near the fire.

Eventually, d'Artagnan's limbs ceased shaking and he was able to fall into an exhausted, dreamless slumber leaning against Athos' shoulder. The extra weight didn't agree with his injured ribs, but the eldest musketeer didn't complain. Slowly, Aramis and Porthos also nodded off after staring into the flickering firelight, near the other two.

Henri made his rounds of the camp, making sure all his soldiers were accounted for once again.

Antoine was asleep or unconscious, leaned upright against a tree with a naked sword laid across his knees. The scarf wrapped around his arm was completely soaked in blood and had stained his broken wrist with its garish color. His face was smeared with gore from his broken nose. Sighing regretfully at the sight, Henri shrugged off his jacket and wrapped it around the front of the young boy's body.

The squad leader heaved himself to his feet and began mentally preparing for things they would need the following day.

Sitting down near the fire, he was shocked when he felt Athos' gaze on him. The musketeer was still white as a sheet. At first, Henri thought he must be cold because he was shaking, but he was wrapped in a blanket and sweat beaded his pale forehead. As the squad leader watched, a thin ribbon of dark blood began flowing from his nose.

The former comte didn't speak, only looked at him. Then his lower lip trembled slightly. Athos immediately tightened his jaw and the piteous look disappeared, but it had been enough.

The squad leader felt a desperate pang of heartbreak for the men in front of him and grabbed an extra bedroll and towel, maneuvering d'Artagnan's still frame onto it.

"Sleep, Athos," he said quietly, wiping the blood gently from the man's bruised face. "Sleep now. It's over."

Athos obediently laid down on his back, breathing as deeply as his damaged ribs would allow. He later remembered the crackling heat of the fire and relishing the smell of the soft blanket he wrapped around himself. The last thing he saw before falling asleep for the first time in three days was his brothers, sleeping peacefully beside him.

* * *

All of them slept through the night, watched over by the serene light of the stars. They remained asleep through the next day, when Henri had a wagon come from Paris to transport the injured men.

D'Artagnan woke briefly to catch a glimpse of the castle, its spires jutting gracefully into the clear azure sky. He blinked, dazzled by the sight, and fell into darkness again, comforted by the knowledge that he was home.


	8. Chapter 8 Part One

_**A/N:**_ Hello everyone! First off, I am really_ really_ sorry about how long this one took to get posted. I wanted to get this last chapter beta'd, and I feel like that alone was worth the wait :)

This fic is dedicated to my beta othrilis, who is beyond amazing in a way words can't describe. It is also dedicated to you, whoever is reading this. I've gotten wonderful support on this story, everything was positive and constructive and just really helped me work past some of the issues I had with this storyline.

As I said before, this story wouldn't exist but for the encouragement of everyone here. Thank you all.

This chapter ended up pretty long, so I'm going to post it in two parts, one right after the other.

I hope you enjoyed it, let me know what you thought!

Standard Disclaimer, obviously. There's a line from Dante's _Inferno_ in the next part, that's not mine either.

Until next time, namaste :)

* * *

_Part 1. _

* * *

The first thing Aramis realized was that he was lying on something soft. Other perceptions slowly filtered through his consciousness, giving his tired brain time to process the input. Something was laid over his body, soft and warm over his bare feet. A sweet, clean smell filled his senses, and he fought to open his eyes.

Eventually, they obeyed and slid open. Dusty sunlight streamed in through the window along with a slight breeze.

He was lying on a bed in the garrison's infirmary. He pushed himself up to his elbows and looked around as his head cleared. To his left, Porthos snored quietly, although there was a slight hitch as he did it, indicating a problem with his breathing. His face had been cleaned of all grime and blood, making him look a hundred times better than he had whilst imprisoned despite the numerous bruises and broken nose.

To his right, d'Artagnan lay on his stomach, breathing lightly and with one arm hanging over the edge of the cot. His shoulder was wrapped tightly in a fresh, white bandage and he looked peaceful enough.

Next to the Gascon, Athos slept fitfully. Aramis could just see the fabric of wrappings peeking from under the former comte's shirt.

As the handsome medic was just thinking about getting up, he noticed a fifth bed in the room. Antoine, the stable hand, was sitting up in his bed, reading a book quietly. He looked up as he felt Aramis' gaze settle on him.

"Hello," he greeted the medic easily, closing the book.

"Antoine," Aramis said, taking stock of the young man with his sharp gaze. His left arm was swaddled in gauze, packing the stab wound he had received from Bastian and his broken wrist was braced and heavily bandaged.

The broken nose he had received had been set, although it had also given him two black eyes. Still, he smiled with genuine pleasure at seeing the musketeer awake.

"What happened?" Aramis asked, a little disoriented at the jumbled memories of escape flooding back.

"Henri had a wagon bring us back here. That was two days ago. You've all been unconscious here in the infirmary ever since. The doctor says I have to stay here for a little while longer, because of blood loss."

The young man pulled a face that said he disagreed with this prognosis.

"Well, that's very practical of him," Aramis murmured, feeling his eyes starting to slide shut against his will.

Antoine noticed and smiled once more.

"Go back to sleep, Aramis. It'll be fine when you wake up again."

The musketeer was asleep before he could even reply.

* * *

When he next woke, d'Artagnan was regaling Antoine with some humorous escapade of his childhood in Gascony. Porthos was smiling slightly and lying back in bed, listening to the quiet words. As the medic shifted, the conversation came to a halt and all eyes turned to him.

Aramis couldn't stop the smile from spreading on his face as he saw his brothers awake and looking remarkably well, considering the circumstances.

"Welcome back," Porthos said.

"Thanks," Aramis answered. His gaze moved to the other cot almost instinctively.

"Athos?" he asked when he saw the elder musketeer was still sleeping.

"His injuries have already been treated, he just needs rest," d'Artagnan said quietly, brow furrowing in consternation. "Lemay said he was in pretty rough shape, but he should make a full recovery."

"Treville has already been here; I gave him my report yesterday," the Gascon added.

"What about Bastian?" Aramis asked, heart thudding painfully in his chest.

Porthos sighed, and the handsome medic tensed.

"Tell me they didn't lose him," Aramis said, desperation creeping into his tone. "Tell me they locked that sadistic bastard away and threw the key into the Seine." His voice trembled audibly on the last word.

"He ran past the vanguard and disappeared into the forest," d'Artagnan answered quietly. "The musketeers followed the trail for as long as they could and went back after Henri took us here. So far, they haven't been able to find him."

"Then it was nothing," Aramis murmured, looking dazed. "We went through all of that for nothing."

Antoine shifted uncomfortably and looked as though he would have preferred for the earth to swallow him up at that moment.

"I'm sorry," he said in a small voice. Guilt settled squarely on his shoulders and made him slouch.

"Why are you sorry?" d'Artagnan asked, turning to the young man.

"If I'd shot Bastian properly, he'd be dead now," the stable hand said miserably.

The Gascon closed his eyes, hazily sifting through the memories of that terrible night. Snapshots of blood, echoes of screams, and the faint gleam of eyes in the darkness ran through his mind.

"You were both on the floor," he said slowly, trying to remember the details. "I heard a snapping sound, I guess that was your wrist. I saw the knife glinting in his hands, then I heard the pistol."

"If it weren't for you we'd all be dead now," Porthos pointed out. "We're all still here."

Aramis looked at the large musketeer, then at the stable hand. The handsome man's face split into a wide smile that was as beautiful as it was unexpected, despite the tears shining in his brown eyes.

"Yes, we are," he answered with a small chuckle.

"You didn't think you'd be rid of us so easily?" D'Artagnan asked, with a playful smile. "Really, Aramis."

Antoine sat up a little straighter. Aramis rolled his eyes good-naturedly. He was about to reply when Athos shifted and opened his eyes, revealing vibrant blue.

"How do you feel, Athos?" Porthos asked.

The eldest musketeer's brow creased as though he had to think about the answer.

"Like I was trampled repeatedly by a horse," he answered dryly. "Although I suppose that means I'm still alive. How long?"

"Two days," Antoine piped up. "You've been unconscious since we brought you here."

"It seems you haven't been much better," Athos remarked, eyeing the bandages and pale color of the stable hand. "I don't recall everything, but I do remember you threw yourself rather brashly at that madman."

The cadet blushed slightly.

"He did it to save us," d'Artagnan said loyally. "You should be thanking him, instead of berating him, Athos."

"I'm grateful, of course," the musketeer conceded, bowing his head slightly. "Still, I can't help but marvel at your logic. Exactly what did you think you would accomplish? I haven't seen that level of foolishness since d'Artagnan arrived in Paris. It's a wonder you two didn't meet before."

The Gascon threw a pillow at Athos with his good arm. The elder musketeer moved his head to the right, and the object missed him by a good two feet.

Just then, the door opened. Treville strode into the room with his boots echoing authoritatively on the wooden floorboards. His fists were planted on his hips, and one look said it all.

The captain of the musketeers was in a head-cracking mood.

Silence reigned supreme over the room. D'Artagnan looked at him, then shied away from the anger in his eyes. Athos alone remained undisturbed and looked resignedly at his commander.

"Good morning," Aramis said courteously.

"It's the middle of the afternoon," Treville replied curtly.

The medic just shrugged. "Afternoon, then," he said.

"You lot have caused us a significant amount of grief," the Captain started. "Missing for seven days. Most of the garrison was sent out after you. In addition, there have been half a dozen broken or bruised ribs, a mild concussion, a gunshot wound, two broken noses, a crushed hand, several deep lacerations that required stitching, a broken wrist, multiple stab wounds, and innumerable bruises between the five of you."

Everyone in the room stayed quiet, not sure where their commander was headed with the conversation.

"Do you have any idea how difficult finding you was?" Treville continued. "It was only because the other party walked into a trap and headed your way that we found you at all."

"It's not as though we could exactly leave an address," d'Artagnan muttered, picking at the blankets.

"Never again," the Captain said, ignoring the Gascon. "I swear, each of you has scared ten years off my life."

"If that's true, then I'd wager you have approximately five seconds left," Aramis remarked, frowning slightly.

The others in the room looked up at the Captain expectantly. Five seconds came and went. Treville swelled with fury at each passing moment.

"Before I lose my temper, do any of you have anything you'd like to say?" Treville asked, his voice cold and carefully controlled.

"When's lunch?" Porthos asked with a yawn.

Treville seized the nearest object, which happened to be a small clay pot and threw it at the head of the large musketeer. Porthos' eyes widened, and he ducked, narrowly evading the attack. The pot shattered behind him, and the pieces rained to the floor.

"You idiots!" the Captain hissed. The anger in his voice rose with each moment in tandem with the volume. "When the doctor releases you, I will personally—" his furious tirade was interrupted by a light step behind him. The door swung open again, revealing Constance.

Her face lit up in a bright smile as she saw the soldiers.

"You're awake!" she exclaimed, rushing forward. She reached Athos first, and wrapped him in a fierce, yet gentle hug. He carefully wrapped an arm around her back, mindful of his broken ribs. She released him, and moved to Aramis, then Porthos, embracing them all in turn.

She reached d'Artagnan last. Their lips met in a deep, tender kiss. After what seemed like an eternity, they clasped tightly, with the Gascon murmuring reassurances in her ear.

"I didn't know if I would see you again," she said, struggling to control her emotions. A tear rolled down her face, marring the beautiful visage.

D'Artagnan's face was strained and pale, but he smiled gently at her and wiped the tear away with the pad of his thumb.

"I never doubted it for a moment," he said. "I will always find my way back to you, Constance."

Finally standing, Constance moved to Antoine's bed with tears in her eyes.

"Henri told me what you did," she said. "Thank you for bringing them back to us." She moved forward and enfolded him in a tight hug as well.

Antoine looked bewildered and awkwardly reached up to pat her back lightly.

"It was Henri, really," he told her, once she had released him. "He spearheaded the mission. Your team could have stumbled into Colville's trap just as easily."

"I heard that it succeeded solely on the heroic actions of one young man," Constance insisted, looking the cadet full in the face.

Treville snorted. "Damned madcap. Taking a momentary advantage and turning it into a battle plan. You're just as bad as they are," he said, gesturing towards the Inseparables.

Antoine turned pale and grimaced.

Constance turned on him. This time, her mild countenance was sharpened by an angry look. Aramis watched the proceedings carefully and hid a smirk. Captain or not, the man was very close to being slapped.

"And do you deny that he acted honorably, with courage? Or do his actions demand some sort of arbitrary punishment?" she asked sharply.

"Not at all," Treville answered, nonplussed. "If I were king of France, I'd give him a full commission immediately and have him join the ranks of musketeers. Unfortunately, I am not the king, so we'll have to wait until tomorrow afternoon when he invites us to the _Palais-Royale_ for that express reason."

D'Artagnan's jaw dropped, and the soldiers looked at each other in surprised. Antoine could not have been more shocked if a thunderbolt fell from the heavens to land at the foot of his bed.

"Captain, truly, you indulge me," the young man stammered. "It's too much. I cannot accept this."

"And why not?" Treville demanded, turning his steely gaze on the stable hand.

"Well, I'm too young," the stable hand began.

"D'Artagnan is your senior by only two or three years," Athos said quietly. "Age is not as relevant as it may seem under extraordinary circumstances."

"Experience, then," Antoine said. "One may become a musketeer after serving for two years in a lower regiment, or by performing certain brilliant actions—"

"You've been under my care for a year now," Treville said. "I've watched you that whole time, and I'm convinced you're ready. Besides, Henri saw you act in the field. Certain 'brilliant actions' were performed; his report was quite clear on the matter. You are to become a musketeer tomorrow afternoon, provided you feel well enough to walk to the palace."

Antoine blushed slightly again, and bowed his head submissively, although inwardly his excitement had reached fever pitch.

D'Artagnan gave him a knowing look and a small grin.

"Oh, don't look so pleased," Treville snapped, scowling at the soldiers. "We've still got to find Bastian."

Athos closed his eyes. "He lives, then."

The others shot him a sympathetic glance. The eldest musketeer sighed, then seemed to regather his strength visibly.

"What should we do?"

"Rest for now," Treville ordered. "Wait until you're properly healed. In the meantime, I have search parties looking for either the man or his corpse in the forest. We've blockaded the major ports and harbors in the area; he can't flee the country without a squadron knowing."

Athos looked at the others, seeing their troubled expressions mirror his own. They sat quietly for a few moments until the Captain cleared his throat.

"I have to get back to the palace; the king expects my report along with Henri's. Stay here until the doctor declares you fit for duty. I mean it," he said threateningly as Aramis opened his mouth to protest.

"If you leave without clearance, I will know. And you will be _very_ sorry afterward. That much I can promise," Treville finished, glaring in the Gascon's direction as he cast a longing glance out of the window.

The soldiers all stared at their commanding officer's retreating back, waiting until the door closed behind him and his steps faded into the distance.

"Well, that was productive," Constance sighed, still clasping d'Artagnan's hand.

"I expected worse," the Gascon admitted.

A deep silence fell over the room. Antoine was pulled from his golden thoughts when he noticed the lack of activity in the room.

"The Queen expects me," Constance said reluctantly.

"You mustn't keep her waiting," d'Artagnan replied, looking away.

"I'll be back this evening to look in on all of you," she promised, heading out of the room.

The door closed behind her, leaving each man to his own thoughts.

* * *

_Two days later…._

Lemay knocked on the wooden door in front of him, and Treville opened the door.

"Captain," the young doctor greeted him easily. "I've just looked in on the men."

"Come in, please," the Captain said, gesturing him inside and into a chair opposite his desk. "How are they?"

"To be completely honest, sir, they could be better," Lemay said seriously.

"It seemed that they were healing as well as could be expected," Treville said, looking confused.

"Physically, sir, yes. They should all make a full recovery; something of a miracle with the conditions they were facing." The doctor's nose wrinkled in disgust as he thought of the squalid prison.

"However, I'm worried about them. They hardly speak, not even to each other. They seem to be eating, but none of them are even approaching typical sleep duration. Athos least of all. He's awake at all hours of the night, yet I never see him resting during the day."

Treville sighed and scrubbed a hand across his face.

"We'll just have to give them more time," he said finally, meeting the doctor's quick gaze. "Perhaps they'll improve when put back on regular duty. It will help them reestablish some normalcy. I just can't believe we couldn't find that bastard," the Captain finished.

"Your patrols never caught Bastian?" Lemay asked, looking somewhat shocked.

"No one's seen hide nor hair of him since returning to Paris," Treville replied. "We've still got scouts out looking, but at this point—" He shrugged helplessly.

It was the first time Lemay had ever seen him look tired.

"Thank you for telling me," the Captain said after a moment. "I'll be sure to keep an eye on them."

Lemay tipped his hat and exited the room quietly.

* * *

"What is it?" d'Artagnan finally asked, breaking the silence that had gone uncontested for the last five hours.

Porthos and Aramis looked at him, but the Gascon was gazing at the former comte who was staring fixedly at the wall.

Slowly, his head turned to meet the young man's eyes. Since returning to the garrison, they had all slowly regained their former vitality due to the proper rest and food.

However, Athos seemed paler and more drawn with each passing day.

"Athos, let us help," the young man said, looking firmly at him. "If you need to talk—"

"I'm fine," Athos replied absently, only half-listening. His mind was feverishly gnawing at the aching question that pervaded all his thoughts.

"You're not," Aramis said quietly. "When was the last time you slept?"

"When we were brought back to the garrison," the comte answered after a moment's pause, chewing on a ragged thumbnail.

"You were unconscious," Porthos said uneasily. "That's not the same thing."

"There's got to be a reason," Athos murmured to himself.

"A reason for what?" D'Artagnan asked, propping himself up on an elbow.

"Why was Bastian certain that France would lose against Spain?" Athos asked aloud, frustration creeping into his voice.

"Because he was mad," Porthos said simply. "The death of his family pushed him over the edge, and the idea of France's defeat was the only thing that kept him going."

"No!" Athos shouted, making them all jump. "It was more than that! He was _sure_!"

"Alright, Athos, calm down," d'Artagnan said, looking uneasily at his comrades.

"There has to be another justification," the comte insisted, looking directly into each of their faces.

"Well, he had those raids done," Aramis said, casting a worried glance over the agitated man's frame. "I would assume he sent someone later to give a portion of the jewels back to the family, in the name of Spanish forces. They could rob the gentility, then give some of it back and be hailed as heroes."

"That still wouldn't account for his confidence," Athos remarked, fidgeting anxiously.

"Who knows why?" d'Artagnan asked, gesturing helplessly. "He was unhinged. And he's probably dead somewhere in the forest where carrion can feast on his body."

Aramis winced at the description, but Porthos' eyes smoldered with anger and he nodded in agreement.

Athos turned his head away from the conversation and resumed his train of thought. They weren't going to be convinced, not yet. He sunk into his thoughts once more, disengaging himself from reality to chase phantoms through his mind.

The others looked at him with deep concern, of which he remained oblivious. Then they looked at each other bleakly. Athos had to be wrong. He just had to be.


	9. Chapter 8 Part Two

_Part 2_

* * *

Eventually, the sun ceded defeat to the twilight. Night stole across Paris like a thief, enveloping everything in deep shadow. With it, came a bone-deep cold. Dark clouds gathered and rumbled ominously.

Near the catacombs, a hunched shape emerged from the darkness. It materialized seemingly out of nowhere and moved with an eerie, shambling gait.

Despite the near-total darkness, it moved with sure steps and slipped between the bars of a loose grate easily.

The specter's feet made no noise as his boots glided over the cobblestones. He made his way through the serpentine tunnels with practiced ease, as one who had traveled this way thousands of times before.

Finally, he found himself in front of a massive wooden door. Pausing for a moment to catch his breath, he pushed it open.

A large room lit by a few burning torches greeted his sight. Bookcases were built into the walls; scrolls and parchment filled the spaces with careful deliberation. A large desk dominated the majority of the space in the room. Standing behind it was a man, tall and slender, with his hands clasped loosely behind him.

The man at the desk turned as Bastian stepped forward into the light like some monster escaped from a child's nightmare.

The criminal's hair was matted and tangled with dirt and leaves. His clothing was ragged and blood-stained. His hand was gnarled and cramped from being held tightly against the bullet wound in his stomach for so long. Pain in his midsection pulsed and seared with the beating of his heart and his eyes were wild and crazed.

"So. Here you are." The man's expression didn't change as he took in the sight of his clandestine visitor. "I received Colville's message four days ago; it stated that all was going according to plan and that I had no cause to worry. Clearly, my intelligence is outdated."

Bastian bowed. "Forgive me, my lord. I didn't know where else to go."

"Give me one good reason why I shouldn't kill you now and throw your pathetic corpse to the wild dogs of Paris," the man said in a careful tone.

"Past debts," Bastian growled. "I am the one who helped you get out of that Spanish prison. If I hadn't spoken on your behalf, you would still be wasting away in a lightless room smaller than a broom cupboard."

"It is because of that service that I felt I could trust you to carry out this mission; it seems I was mistaken," the man remarked. Arrogance was defined in every word, and Bastian felt the first stirrings of true despair.

"It was a simple task. I asked you to kill those damned musketeers because they have proved to be an inconvenience more than once. You couldn't even manage that properly because of your own vendetta."

"Rochefort," Bastian began. "You don't understand—"

"Oh, I understand everything," the count said coldly. "You've outlived your usefulness."

Bastian backed away as the blond man pulled out a long, sharp dagger. Looking into the empty eyes of his ally-turned-enemy, the brigand ran as fast as his wounded body would allow and disappeared into the darkness of the catacombs once more.

* * *

Athos lay awake, eyes wide open despite the ungodly hour. His eyes were fixed on the ceiling, although he wasn't truly seeing it. Around him, the other musketeers slept, though fitfully.

Memories swirled in his head, in random sequence. The former comte wasn't attempting to direct them and allowed his thoughts to drift with abandon. His mind replayed the conversation that had taken place between Bastian and himself, the morning that he had tried to negotiate with the monster.

_I suppose you wouldn't understand,_ he had said. _But you will._ _I already have what I want._

A flash of movement outside the window caught his attention. He immediately sat upright, ignoring the spinning of his head as he did so.

He squinted into the darkness beyond the courtyard and thought he perceived a dark figure appear from an entrance to the catacombs beneath the streets of Paris.

As he watched, a second shape came bolting after the first. This one was carrying something that glinted and flashed in the dull moonlight.

The musketeer swung his legs over the side of the bed and hurriedly pulled on his boots.

His breath caught in his chest and he swayed dizzily when he stood up, unused to moving so quickly with his damaged ribs.

Still, he wasted no time in abandoning the garrison infirmary. As he hurried down the stairs, the thumping of his boots on the wooden deck resounded dully. He stopped for a moment, peering through the darkness in the hopes of catching a glimpse of the apparition. His breath condensed and spiraled out into the icy air.

* * *

Bastian wasn't consciously aware of anything besides running. His breath came in ragged gasps and his side burned and stretched with every pump of his legs. Direction wasn't important. Only speed.

Rochefort ran close behind him, breath coming in easy measures. And why not? He was a wolf, stalking his wounded prey.

Bastian turned left, then right. He ducked and weaved between different structures in the courtyard, reaching the garrison's barracks and meaning to run through the gate.

Athos followed the running figures, albeit a bit more slowly. His ribs shifted in agony and protested with every movement, and he bit his lip until it bled to keep from screaming. The musketeer ducked behind a nearby structural beam to catch his breath and hide where he could watch the spectacle.

Suddenly, the sky broke open and cold water fell from the heavens to drench the earth. Bastian stumbled and slipped through the muddy streets, trying his best not to lose his footing.

Rochefort was gaining steadily. The count readjusted the knife in his hand without breaking stride. His hand flicked out in a practiced movement, and the dagger flew with deadly accuracy into the man's fleeing form.

Bastian gasped and fell to the ground, tripping over a loose cobble. He landed hard, not twenty paces from Athos' vantage point. Black mud mixed with the blood flowing from his wounds, all being washed away by the incessant torrent.

The count stood over Bastian with bright hatred reflected in his blue eyes. The rain fell in heavy sheets and limited visibility.

The sky was lit up by a brilliant flash of lightning that snaked across the dark skies. In that momentary light, Athos recognized the pale hair and strong features of Rochefort. His heart thudded painfully, and his eyes widened as he then recognized the writhing form of Bastian in the mud.

The criminal spit out a mouthful of dirt and glared balefully at his enemy. His thoughts turned to Leonor and Pele, waiting for him beyond the gates of death.

The count drew his pistol and pulled the trigger. The sound of the gunshot was swallowed by a deafening peal of thunder.

Treville, who had fallen asleep at his desk, was startled awake by the storm. Looking about wildly, he caught sight of the crumpled shape on the ground of the courtyard and an odd movement outside the window.

Jumping up, the Captain ran outside with a pistol in his hand. He strode to the balcony, looking out into the rain-filled darkness.

* * *

Rochefort seemed to sense that he was being watched and looked directly at where Athos was peering from behind a pillar.

Lightning flashed again, and the man's face was illuminated by nightmarish white light. The musketeer's eyes met the traitor's, and Rochefort smiled. Then he turned and fled into the night.

Athos hurried after him without thinking and slipped in the muck. Unbalanced, he fell to the ground and something shifted inside his chest.

White, ethereal shapes danced before his eyes and he gasped for breath as the pain in his body exploded.

Cold mud oozed around his hands and legs, pulling him down. Rain fell on him from above and streamed across his feverish brow. His eyes closed against the water droplets.

_To the third circle of eternal rain, accursed, cold and heavy, I am come. _

The long-forgotten line from a passage of youth swam to the surface of his mind incoherently as he shivered in the downpour.

Strong hands were pulling him up from the filth that engulfed him. They supported him as he swayed where he stood.

Athos met the concerned gaze of his captain.

"Athos!" Treville shouted, giving the man a shake.

The musketeer's eyes opened again—when had they closed?—and fixed more surely on the man in front of him.

"Where did he go?" Athos shouted, struggling to look through the billowing sheets of rain.

"Who?" the Captain bellowed back, trying to be heard over the howling wind.

"Rochefort!" Athos yelled. "He killed Bastian!"

Treville's face went blank with shock, then swore and readjusted his grip on the musketeer. Together, they approached the fallen tormentor.

Bastian's body lay stiffening on the ground. Raindrops fell into his open eyes and ran down his face. The blood pooled around the corpse, mixing with the silvery water that lay around him in a puddle.

Athos turned away, unable to bear the frozen look of horror on his face. Treville grimaced.

"We need to get you inside," he shouted. "The storm is growing worse."

The musketeer made it two steps before his strength was exhausted, and he tumbled unconscious into the Captain's arms.

* * *

Athos came to a few hours later. The other soldiers were already awake, conversing in low, anxious tones.

The musketeer's eyes opened blearily, and his breath hitched as he became aware of the pain in his chest.

"What were you _thinking_, Athos?" Aramis asked, sounding equal parts concerned, angry and fearful. "Treville said you fell; you've probably set your recovery back by a few weeks. And in the storm? You'll be lucky if you don't catch your death of cold."

"Where's the Captain?" Athos slurred, not quite present as his eyes sought around the room.

"He's gone to the palace to speak with the King," d'Artagnan said, eyes wide at the state of his friend. "He said he would return once he was finished."

"Good," Athos murmured, feeling exhausted again. "Treville will tell him the truth."

The others shared a mute look of uneasy concern.

"What truth?" Porthos inquired.

"It was Rochefort," Athos said drowsily. "He was helping Bastian the whole time."

A heavy silence fell over the room. The other three looked at each other uncomfortably.

"Athos, I'm not sure that's right," Aramis began awkwardly.

"What do you mean?" Athos demanded, eyes flying open. "I saw him last night! He killed Bastian, then ran off!"

"The Captain didn't see anyone else last night," d'Artagnan said quietly, unable to meet his friend's eyes. "He saw Bastian lying on the ground, and then you nearby. There was no one else. No one at all."

"No, that can't be right!" Athos protested, mind whirling in confusion. "Rochefort was there! He shot Bastian in the chest, that's what made him fall to the ground!"

"Actually, I've just seen the body myself in the morgue," Treville said, stepping through the open door of the infirmary. The man looked haggard and dropped into a chair near d'Artagnan's bed.

"There wasn't a bullet wound in his chest at all. There was one in his stomach, where Antoine shot him four days ago. They pulled a knife out of his back; Lemay believes this is what killed him."

"No, I saw him pull the trigger," Athos said firmly, although his face had turned a ghostly shade of white. "Did you tell the King?"

"Tell him what, Athos?" Treville said in an exasperated voice.

"That Rochefort was helping Bastian! That he killed him!" Athos replied, sounding just as frustrated.

"Of course not!" the Captain snapped. "I was merely discussing Antoine's movement into the regiment and thanked him again for his generosity in the matter."

"I saw—" Athos began furiously.

"I found you almost unconscious outside, lying on the ground," Treville told him, checking his temper. "You had a fever, and I think you may still," he said, eyeing the perspiration on the man's face. "You may have seen things that weren't really there."

A long silence filled the room. The other musketeers looked helplessly at their friend.

"Where was Rochefort around that time this morning?" Athos asked, eyes blazing as he stared down his commander.

Treville gestured angrily. "In bed, I would imagine. That storm was nasty."

"Can anyone confirm it?" Athos persisted.

"At that hour in the morning? Don't be ridiculous!"

"Then he could have done it!" Athos said, growing angrier. "Do you think Bastian planted that knife in his own back? He was murdered by someone here in Paris, someone with a motive."

"Well, that much is obvious!" Treville snapped back. "It could have been anyone! No one was around to witness it, and the man wasn't exactly lacking in enemies. We can't just assume it was Rochefort and have him arrested!"

"But if Rochefort was working with Bastian, then our return back to Paris would have completely derailed his plans if we had somehow found out! I know Bastian had help from the inside, Captain. He was too sure of what he was saying, he _knew_ that he could succeed." Athos looked pleadingly at his commander, begging him with his eyes to understand.

Treville sighed and hung his head.

"Athos," he began again in a quiet voice. "What you're implying is enormous. We need proof before we throw around accusations like this. So far, we have none. Except for your own account which was made under what both the doctor and I consider extremely questionable circumstances."

The musketeer stared at him in mute disbelief as he continued.

"You say you saw Rochefort; I swear to you: I didn't see anyone in the courtyard beside you and Bastian. You say he fired his gun; there was no bullet wound beside the one that Antoine gave him. Did Bastian ever confide to you that he was working with someone in Paris?"

"No, but—" Athos said, quiet desperation beginning to show in his face.

"Athos," Aramis said. His face reflected sorrow and his brow was drawn down in unhappy lines.

"Why don't you believe me?" the musketeer asked. His face didn't show anger, only a bewildered kind of hurt.

"We don't doubt you," d'Artagnan said immediately. "We're not doubting your word at all. We just can't prove that what you remember is…is what actually happened."

Porthos cleared his throat as if to say something, then fell into a nervous silence again.

"I see," Athos said icily. He fell back against the pillows, feeling drained again.

Despite numerous attempts at conversation, the eldest musketeer wouldn't speak again or answer any further questions the Captain put to him. Eventually, they stopped trying, and the silence lulled Athos into a kind of stupor between waking and dream.

He felt a gentle hand brush against his forehead and drowsily tried to squirm away. Athos thought he heard a muttered word of disapproval, and the touch disappeared. He kicked off his blanket uncomfortably, feeling too hot and drifted into a restless doze.

* * *

"How is he?" Treville asked without preamble as Lemay quietly exited the infirmary after making his nightly check on the resting soldiers.

"His fever hasn't gotten worse, but it hasn't broken yet, either," Lemay said, sounding troubled. "I think he'll be alright. That jaunt in the storm obviously aggravated his condition, but if he agrees to rest for a few days, I should be able to discharge him along with the others."

"Good," the Captain sighed. "Let's just hope nothing else drastic happens for a little while."

* * *

True to Treville's hopes, the days passed slowly without any further developments.

After four days of reluctant bedrest, the four soldiers were cleared for light duty. They resumed their normal operations, although without their typical rigorous training.

The mood in the garrison was noticeably lighter once the Inseparables were back on regular patrol, although the four soldiers themselves were unaware of it.

Things were mostly back to normal. To the careful observer, there were small changes here and there. The four soldiers seemed quieter and more restrained. They no longer stayed out until late hours of the night or drank except in moderation.

It would have been unusual to see one without the others before their capture; it was downright impossible to find one man alone afterward. They sought only each other's company, although they seemed to speak very little.

Antoine was generally accepted among the others once the story of his exploits had spread around. He joined the ranks quietly and wore the pauldron with dignity and grace.

Treville saw all of this, although his attentions were soon called elsewhere in his service to the King. He had asked a few men to quietly look into the actions of Rochefort, but nothing was ever uncovered to implicate the count with the actions of Bastian. Treville shifted his focus to more pressing matters. But he never forgot Athos' suspicions or the nagging feeling in the back of his own mind.

* * *

It was evening, well towards midnight. Athos had retired early, withdrawing to his room after dinner. The others had offered to join him, but he had refused. He needed time alone to think.

As the hours slowly ticked by, Athos stared out the window intently. Abruptly, he stood, as a man who has made up his mind.

Pulling on his cloak, he quietly left his apartments and walked through the abandoned streets of Paris in the direction of the castle.

* * *

Rochefort was working in his study by candlelight, poring over a scroll. He didn't look up although he heard the quiet, measured step behind him.

"Why have you come here?" he asked in a lofty tone.

There was a slight pause.

"You know why I've come," Athos replied in a cold voice.

"Isn't it past your bedtime?" Rochefort asked, still not looking at the man.

"I know it was you in the courtyard the night Bastian was found dead," Athos said, looking intently at the man.

"What in God's name are you talking about?" Rochefort growled, standing up with a sigh.

"You almost had me fooled for a while," he continued as Rochefort composed his features into a cool look of boredom and contempt.

"I thought perhaps I was imagining it all. It was too dark; Treville didn't see you. I know you fired your pistol, and yet there wasn't a wound. There was the knife of course, but that could have been thrown by anyone."

"Truly, your insight is remarkable," Rochefort said in a dry, biting tone. "I waltzed into a garrison of musketeers in the dead of night and killed a man with an imaginary bullet."

"The bullet wasn't imaginary," Athos said, refusing to rise to the bait. "It was nonexistent."

"If you've interrupted my work for this drivel—" Rochefort began menacingly.

"You never loaded the ball," Athos said quietly, gauging his reaction. "You fired the gun because you wanted me to think you shot Bastian. But you never really did. The powder residue was washed away from his skin and clothes by the rain. It was just to make me look like an unbalanced fool later when I told my story to Treville."

The blond man stared him down, then his face broke into a slight smile. Athos felt a chill run through his body; it was the same leering look Rochefort had given him after shooting Bastian.

"Say I did. You still don't have any proof. Good luck getting anyone to believe your story. A King's order is required to confine anyone to the Bastille. He's quite fond of me these days, I doubt he'll take your word over mine," the count said disdainfully, brushing past the musketeer towards the exit.

"Oh, and one more thing," Rochefort said, turning back. "If I _did_ perpetrate these crimes you accuse me of, that would mean I was actively working with Bastian to eliminate you. I think we both know that I would have orchestrated your demise in a neater way.

Following that train of thought, if I were to have done all of this, your continued existence could only mean one thing."

The count stepped closer to the man, boring his eyes into the haunted ones that stared back.

"_I'm not through with you yet."_

Athos watched him go, jumped when the door slammed shut behind the man. Surrounded by the silence of the chamber, he became aware of just how alone he truly was.

All the way back to his apartments, Rochefort's words echoed in his mind. Even the break of dawn couldn't dispel his gloomy thoughts.

* * *

A few hours later, his brothers joined him at the table for muster. If Athos looked more haggard than usual, no one mentioned it.

Athos watched d'Artagnan train in the yard, taking on two musketeers at once. All the Gascon's concentration was poured into the task, and his shirt was soon soaked through with sweat.

_Your continued existence could only mean one thing._

Aramis sat near Porthos, at the table, engaged in a quiet conversation. Athos even saw the handsome musketeer smile a little.

_We both know that I would have orchestrated your demise in a neater way. _

D'Artagnan approached him after standing on parade, asking if he was alright.

_Say I did. You still don't have any proof. _

Athos looked at him, eyes haunted by a secret that weighed on him.

_I'm not through with you yet. _

"I'm fine," he answered and turned away.


End file.
